


All My Sins Remembered

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kidnapping, Sherlolly - Freeform, Warstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5366291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-HLV. Before his exile, Sherlock goes to Molly, who makes a request of him that he gladly fulfills. However, Moriarty is back and Sherlock isn't his first target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Favor

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta broomclosetkink for helping me work out the, erm, kinks in my fic! Couldn't have done it without you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous cover art by mslestat, thank you so much!

“Sherlock, tell me what happened. Why didn’t you let me accept your mother’s invitation to Christmas dinner? Why did you take Bill Wiggins, of all people, instead? And why haven’t I heard from you since then - it’s been a week!”

He can’t meet her gaze, even if there’s nothing but quiet resignation in both eyes and voice when she makes her request; no, scotch that – no matter how quietly offered, it isn’t a request, it’s a demand. And Molly Hooper makes so very, very few demands of him – of anyone – that when she does, people listen. Well, most people. Sometimes even him, in his own way.

_Say you’re sorry._

_Sorry your engagement’s over, though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring._

“Sherlock!”

Brought back to the present by the sudden sharpness in Molly’s voice, Sherlock finally meets her gaze. They are standing across the small space of her kitchen, but it might as well be a chasm the size of the American Grand Canyon. “I’ve killed a man, Molly.”

She doesn’t flinch; she never flinches no matter what he says to her, no matter what he asks of her.

_Molly, I think I’m going to die._

_What do you need?_

“You’ve killed more than one man, Sherlock Holmes. There’s no way you took down Jim Moriarty’s criminal empire without killing anyone. Why is this different?”

“For a lot of reasons, some of them good, some of them...not all of them forgivable,” he admits.

_You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. Always…_

_I am sorry. Forgive me._

Shaking off the ghost of conversations past, he takes a step forward before stopping himself. No, he deserves no physical comfort from her, even if they have become something...not _more_ than friends (such a ridiculous term) but _different_ than friends. Something special to one another after she’d finally forgiven him for going back on drugs and tricking Janine into a relationship.

He would even go so far as to admit he was ready to consider Molly in a _romantic_ light, much as people like John Watson would scoff at the idea. Or rather, he had been until taking that fateful shot in front of a myriad of government witnesses. Now, on the eve of exile, he knows there’s no possibility of taking that ‘something different’ they share to any other level.

The quiet tap of one foot on the lino reminds him that Molly is still waiting for an explanation. So he gives it to her, unflinchingly, not attempting in any way to excuse or justify his actions. Her eyes narrow angrily when he admits to having drugged his family and the very pregnant Mary Watson, then widen with alarm when he tells her about Magnussen’s mind palace and the threats the former newspaperman represented. He makes no mention of the danger to John and Mary Watson, of course, but instead focuses on how Magnussen had gloated that he now had a hold over the Holmes brother he was most interested in being able to blackmail. “Which would be disastrous for the entire country,” Sherlock concludes, fists clenching in remembered anger.

“Today England, tomorrow the world,” Molly murmurs, her perpetually awkward sense of humor easing some of the tension that’s sprung up between them. He assumes it’s a quote of some kind but doesn’t question her on it – especially since it’s entirely appropriate to the scope of Magnussen’s ambitions. “So you shot him. To keep your brother out of his clutches.” Her brown eyes are serious, her lips turned slightly downward as she studies him. “That’s a good reason, a forgivable reason. Why else? What is it you’re not saying?”

“Part of it was wounded pride.” The confession isn’t an easy one to make, and as he speaks he does his best to mask his unease at how well she can read him. Had he ever truly fooled this woman about anything? Possibly during the first few months after they’d met, when all it took was a smile and a compliment to get her to do whatever he wanted. But probably not for much longer than that. She still has a waiting look about her as she nods her understanding. And so against his better judgement, he adds, “And partly because of something I can’t share with anyone because it’s not my secret to tell.”

She nods again, startling him all over when she murmurs, “I won’t let on that I know, Sherlock. They’ll never have to worry about hearing it from me.” Before he can deduce her meaning, she reaches out and rests her hand briefly on his abdomen – right above the scar left by Mary Watson’s bullet.

Molly _knows_. How, how can Molly _possibly_ know? The only people who are supposed to know are himself, Mary, and John – well, and Mycroft of course, impossible to keep secrets from his meddlesome elder sibling – but how had Molly found out? Before he can ask, she gives him a sad smile and pulls her hand back. “So what happens now?”

“A mission in eastern Europe for Mycroft. He estimates it’ll take no more than six months.” The mystery of Molly’s knowledge of secrets in his past is put aside in favor of concentrating on the secret regarding his future.

He has no intention of telling her the truth; it would be cruel, putting that burden on her shoulders. He’s already loaded up her slim form with more secrets than any one person should ever have to bear. And since he has no intention of telling John the truth, telling Molly will force her to once again keep things from others. No, he refuses to do it.

“Six months,” she says quietly, head down. She reaches out blindly and clings to one of his hands with both of hers, and he realizes with a jolt that tears are leaking from her tightly-clenched eyes. He’s known her for more than five years and yet this is the first time he’s ever seen her cry. “Six months and then...you’re not coming back. Are you.”

He really needs to stop underestimating this woman. “No,” he says simply, and she bows her head in silent acknowledgement of his words. What, he wonders uneasily, should he do now? Memories of being comforted by his mother and father during times of deep distress in his early childhood flash through his mind. With that to nudge him into action, Sherlock reaches out with his free arm, tentatively encircling her slight frame and holding her close to his body. “I’m sorry, Molly.” The words are entirely inadequate to the situation, but what else is there to say?

He braces himself for more tears, for anger and hurt and anything else she cares to throw at him, but instead of the expected flood, she tilts her head up and meets his gaze, cheeks wet, but her mouth firm and chin positively defiant. “Sherlock, we’ve known each other for a long time now. And in all that time, I’ve never asked you for anything.” She pauses and he nods, sensing that some sort of acknowledgement of her statement is required. “And if this is really happening, if you don’t think...if you’re not…” She takes a steadying breath before dropping her bombshell. “I want something from you. Before you go. Something only you can give me, Sherlock.”

“Anything,” he replies, confident that she won’t ask him for something impossible, like a promise to return.

Her response, however, is entirely unexpected, and takes more than a few minutes to process. “I want a baby, Sherlock. _Your_ baby. Will you do that for me?”


	2. The Answer

Of all the things Molly Hooper might have asked of him, of all the favors he owes her, this is literally so far off his radar that he’s never even considered it. When he comes back to awareness of the world around him, she’s nibbling at her bottom lip and peering up at him through anxious brown eyes no longer shining with tears. Her cheeks have been scrubbed dry, although they remain red and raw, as is her nose. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...I didn’t mean you and I have to...I don’t mean the _traditional_ way, I would never force you into something like that, Sherlock. I just want you to be the donor.”

A donor. It sounds so cold and clinical, hearing that term from Molly’s lips, knowing that it isn’t what she _really_ wants. What either of them want. And now that he’s filtered the idea of fathering a child with her through his brain – a permanent reminder that Sherlock Holmes had lived and breathed and done more than solve crimes and wear a funny hat – he finds that the idea of wanking into a beaker holds very little appeal.

Deliberately stepping back, he removes his arms from around her, folding them behind his back as he studies her. Because he wants to be very sure he’s deducing her actual wishes correctly, and not imposing his own long-suppressed desires on her. “A donor? Is that truly all you want from me, Molly?”

Her wide eyes and the sudden hitch of her breath as her lips part gave Sherlock all the answer he needs. A single step forward and she’s in his arms, their mouths pressed together in a kiss that tastes of equal parts longing and desperation. Molly’s mouth opens obediently when he slides his tongue between her lips, and her hands wrap themselves in the lapels of his Belstaff as the kiss deepens.

“Tell me I’m not wrong,” he growls when the kiss ends, tugging very lightly on the hair at the nape of her neck in order to tilt her head up so he can meet her gaze. “Tell me this is what you really want, Molly. Tell me.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock, of course it is!” she cries as she pulls him down for another passionate kiss. “You, it’s only ever been you, you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted,” she moans as he slides his mouth to the tender flesh below her left ear. There’s a freckle there that he’s always noticed but never commented on, because to do so would have given far too much away. There are fantasies he’s never allowed himself to dwell on, fantasies that involve Molly and that freckle and his mouth leaving a dark purple bruise around it.

Fantasies that are about to come true.

“Bedroom,” Molly murmurs as she begins undoing the buttons of his shirt – the aubergine one, her favorite, even an idiot like Anderson could deduce that – and kicking off her shoes. They undress one another, fumbling and (on Molly’s part) giggling a bit as they occasionally bump into the walls while shedding their clothes. He can’t bear to keep his hands away from her for longer than a few seconds at a time, and so it takes him far longer than it should to finally shuck the last sock and kick off his pants. Her expression is avaricious when his cock is freed from the trapping fabric, as is his as he takes in the sight of her nude form. Yes, her breasts are small, but they are also...perfect.

With another desperate kiss they tumble together onto her bed, utterly naked, and utterly wrapped up in each other. Molly’s lips on his, her hands on his body, her legs tangled with his...oh, it’s everything he’s ever imagined it would be, but never allowed himself to hope for. To _want_.

Until now. Now that it’s too late for them to have any sort of a future together. His own fault, all of it; why had he hesitated, why had he taken so long to get his head out of his arse and admit that the reason she mattered so much to him was because he’d fallen in love with her?

Too late. Too late for anything more than this. Thank God Molly made this request of him, else he’d have simply left her with nothing more than a kiss on the cheek and perhaps a tight hug before leaving her behind forever. Instead, there is finally learning the planes and hollows of her petite form, knowing how she feels against his body with nothing between them but the thinnest slice of air. Now he can put his hands on her breasts, her thighs, her glorious hair. He can leave his mark in her throat; as he sucks and nips at the tender flesh, Molly arches and gasps beneath him, destroying much of his long held control. Now he knows how she sounds in the throes of ecstasy: the whimpers and sighs, the gasps, the breathless cries, the high pitched keening as he lowers his head between her legs and tastes her; the guttural groans as she nears her peak. And, finally, her sweet cry of release taking the shape of his name as Molly collapses back on the bed, her orgasm cresting.

Even more astonishing is the feel of her body surrounding him, containing him, _accepting_ him as he eases his way inside her. Every movement is a symphony made flesh, and if he ever gets his hands on a violin again, he’ll compose a sonata just for her. He mumbles those words to her as they move together, and she responds with soft repetitions of his name, her fingers tangled in his sweat-dampened curls, her legs wrapped around his hips as she reaches her second peak.

When the pleasure falls away, leaving them both limp and sated, Molly sleeps. After a short time, Sherlock eases himself out of her bed, dropping a kiss on her cheek before heading for the loo. After taking care of the necessities, he hunts for his coat, picking it up from where he’d dropped it on the floor and laying it across the back of her sofa. He sits down, heedless of his nudity, and pulls his mobile out of one pocket in order to send his brother a text. _Tell your man I’ll be staying here for the next few days, and have someone bring me a few changes of clothes. – SH_

The response comes within seconds, no doubt sent by ‘Anthea’ since Mycroft never texts if he can help it. _Henderson will bring your clothes and necessities round in the morning. Don’t leave the premises; your house arrest still stands even if the venue has changed. – MH_

_Understood. – SH_

Sherlock tosses the mobile onto Molly’s coffee table and wishes desperately for a cigarette. He hasn’t told Molly about the house arrest part, or that there are several men guarding the building to make sure he doesn’t try to effect an escape via the back stairs or a convenient drainpipe. His lips twist in a bitter smile as he rests his head on the back of the sofa. Oh, he’s done it now, got himself into enough trouble that even his brother can’t get him out of it, not entirely. At least he’s managed this much: a week for Sherlock to get his affairs in order and review the files prepared for his suicide mission. A week under house arrest, but it really doesn’t matter which house it is. He isn’t going to say good-bye to Mrs. Hudson or his parents; what would be the point? Martha and his mother would cry, his father’s voice would crack as he told Sherlock how much he loved him...no, better to spare them all the pain.

He should have spared Molly the pain as well, but couldn’t bring himself to just leave without saying anything. She deserves that much, and so much more. He’ll see John and Mary at the airfield, Mycroft’s promised him that much, but Molly...he thought he would take just a few minutes to explain things to her, but the request she’d made of him had been all he needed to toss his plans aside without a second thought.

She might be pregnant already, or within a day or so; his exile has conveniently timed itself to her ovulation cycle, and she’s been off the Pill since she’d ditched Meat Dagger. And even if she doesn’t conceive before he has to go, he’ll leave behind a sample to be frozen, for her exclusive use. Mycroft will arrange things with a reputable fertility clinic, and one way or another, Molly will have her baby. _Their_ baby. A son or daughter to carry on the Holmes bloodline. A child to comfort her after she receives news of his death; he’ll have to ask Mycroft to make that report in person, rather than sending some lackey to deliver it or allow her to hear about it on the news. He makes a mental note to revise his will as well, dividing his estate equally between Molly’s child and the Watson baby.

He also needs to leave a message for John, asking him and Mary to look after Molly. He still has no plans to tell them that his exile is actually a death sentence, but suspects that Mary already knows and that John does as well, although he’s probably in denial. And who knows? Sherlock had survived before when he’d been expected to die; perhaps he’ll manage it again.

“Sherlock? Is everything all right?”

He opens his eyes and sees Molly peering down at him, her hands resting lightly on the back of the sofa, her chestnut hair tangled around her shoulders. She’s wearing a dressing gown, a silky pink thing with a fussy amount of lace at the wrists and throat, something old-fashioned and Victorian that his great-grandmother might have worn. But not in the least frumpy; the soft folds of the material cling to Molly’s curves, and he can see her cleavage peeking from beneath the fabric. “Everything’s fine, Molly,” he reassures her, reaching up and tugging her face gently down so he can give her an upside-down kiss. “I’ll be staying here for the week, if that’s all right with you,” he adds when the kiss ends.

She nods, gently freeing herself from his grasp, only to circle around the sofa and settle next to him. He pulls her close, so that her head rests on his shoulder, and leans his cheek on the top of her head. She smells of strawberries and vanilla, with the faintest hint of lemon, and underneath it all, of sex. Suddenly he wants her again, with a fierceness that takes him by surprise; he pulls her down while she gives a startled giggle and mock-fights him. They wrestle lightly until it ends with her firmly pinned beneath him and his mouth exploring the exposed parts of her skin. He fumbles the ties to her dressing gown open, reaching down to fondle her breasts until she squirms and moans and pulls him close for another kiss.

He wraps his arms around her and flips them suddenly until she is sprawled on top of him. Their enthusiastic movements have brought him from half-hard to fully erect, and her new position gives him a great many ideas, none of which he would be comfortable sharing with his parents. “Ride me,” he says roughly as he meets her questioning gaze. She sits up, allowing the gown to slide off her arms and pool on his thighs and knees, positioning herself over his erection. She eases herself onto him, sighing softly as he fills her, her hands pressing on his hips as she begins moving.

He matches her rhythm but allows her to set the pace, his hands on her hips and his eyes never leaving hers until she leans forward to claim a kiss. The tips of her breasts grazes his chest, the ends of her hair tickle his flesh, and he groans at the multitude of sensations washing over him.

Soon she’s gasping and leaning back with her hands on his thighs while he rubs circles on her clit with his thumb. She calls out his name again as she orgasms, then collapses against him, pressing soft, wet kisses to his collarbone and throat while she recovers. Once her breathing and heartbeat return to normal, he begins moving beneath her; she raises herself up and smiles at him, tucking her hair behind her ear, and with those simple, familiar gestures he feels his own climax overwhelming him. “Molly!” he gasps, his voice strangled and eyes wide as his hips stutter and slow. She leans down and kisses him again; he pulls her close and allow sleep to overcome him, lulled by the sound of her breathing and the feel of her heart beating in time with his own.


	3. The Aftermath

The week passes quickly, far too quickly for Molly’s taste. It’s so unfair, to finally be intimately involved with Sherlock only to lose him again, this time for good. To have to watch silently while he packs up his few belongings after a fruitless argument – via mobile – with his brother. To see the cold, indifferent mask slip back onto his features when the expected knock comes at the door. To be forced to make her final good-byes while a stone-faced security goon stands by with his hands folded over each other and his eyes, though hidden behind a pair of mirrored lenses, never leaving Sherlock.

“Good-bye,” she says, trying for the same stoicism the unnamed guard and her now-former lover both manage with apparent ease. Trying, and failing miserably; Molly Hooper just isn’t designed for stoicism or coldness. But she’s damned if she’s going to cry in front of a stranger, especially not one whose only reason for being in her flat is to take Sherlock away with him.

She’s already kissed Sherlock good-bye and doesn’t intend to do anything more than smile and maybe give him a quick hug, mindful of his dislike of public displays of affection, but he has other ideas; when she opens her arms he very nearly falls into them, pulling her close and cradling her face in his hands. Hands that had done such lovely, wicked things to her body, leaving her still pleasantly sore and quite literally aching for his touch.

He brings his face down and presses those sensuous, silky lips to hers, kissing her with all the passion she’s seen him demonstrate over their shared week, and the tears she’s been fighting finally win the battle. “Sherlock,” she sobs, and he wraps her in his arms and whispers three words she never thought she’d hear from him, along with a promise to try to last long enough for their child to be born. A child he’ll still never see, but will at least know has arrived safely into the world. His brother, he assures her, will find a way to do that much for him.

Then he lets her go, fingers trailing reluctantly across her cheeks as he backs away. She reaches out, then lets her hands drop to her sides as he gives her a sad smile and a small shake of the head. He turns and gives a short nod to the guard, who opens the door and escorts Sherlock out of Molly’s flat and out of her life.

**oOo**  

She goes to work; what else can she do? Stay home and rail at the unfairness of it all? Weep for lost possibilities until there are no more tears left in her? She’s already cried more in the past six days than she has in the last year, and she’s done. She won’t cry again, she vows silently as she rides the Tube to St. Barts. Not until she hears news of Sherlock’s ultimate fate. And when their baby is born; of course she’ll cry buckets then, how could she not? Whether she’s already pregnant or whether she’ll have to use the clinic Mycroft had Sherlock’s sperm donation sent to, one way or another she’ll have a child to raise. One with Sherlock’s ever-changing eyes or dark curls, she hopes. Even if the baby looks like a miniature her, Molly knows she’ll only see Sherlock in their features.

She leaves the daydreaming behind as soon as she arrives in the morgue, determined to show the world a cheerful face. She’s done it before, after all. She’s hidden her true feelings behind a mask, although admittedly it had been easier to pretend to be mourning Sherlock’s supposed death than to act as if she has no inkling of his current situation, but she manages.

She manages incredibly well; so well, in fact, that Mike Stamford comments on it before he leaves her to finish up in the lab. “Nice to see you so cheerful this holiday season, Molly. I know the last few were a bit rough, and I was afraid with the breakup and all…” His voice trails off as he glances at her bare ring finger, but she forces a smile and pats him on the hand comfortingly.

“Don’t worry, Mike. I knew it wasn’t right and I ended it. I hope Tom finds someone that can love him the way he deserves, and I’m determined to make the new year a good one.” Her smile turns genuine as her thoughts once again drift to the possibility of new life growing within her. “In fact, I’ve already made some plans along that line. Wish me luck!”

Mike smiles and waves goodbye, although he still looks a bit perplexed. Well, it will all become clear when she can make her announcement in about three months. She knows he’ll be happy for her. And anyone who isn’t can just bugger off.

With that thought in mind, Molly grabs a shallow tray of scalpels to put away. As she turns, the small TV sat in the alcove catches her attention; hadn’t she turned it off after watching the training DVD she’d been reviewing? She starts to move closer, then freezes as the image on the screen comes into focus. Mouth dropping open in astonishment, eyes wide, she watches the digital image of Jim Moriarty, her ex-psychopath-but-not-a-boyfriend-dammit, chanting “Did you miss me?” over and over again.

No. Impossible. The tray of scalpels falls to the floor unnoticed as she tries to process what she’s seeing. Jim is dead; she hadn’t performed the autopsy but she’d seen the body, it was definitely him. Even the gunshot wound couldn’t disguise those features, not from her. So how…?

Before she can finish the thought, she senses a presence behind her; turning, her eyes widening in fearful recognition, she starts to scream for help…a scream that dries up even as she feels the sting of a needle in the side of her neck.

As she collapses unconscious into Jim Moriarty’s arms, she hears his gleeful whisper. “Hey, Molls, did you miss me?”

**oOo**  

Sherlock’s fingers drum incessantly against the handle of the door. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he snarls, whipping his head around to glare at his brother.

Mycroft, looking as cool and unruffled as always, simply raises his chin and tilts his head slightly to the side, fingers resting against the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock narrows his eyes, then huffs and turns back to stare out the window, one foot now jiggling with as much impatience as his fingers. John and Mary are seated in the facing seats, both looking pale and tense, as well they should: one dangerous impediment to their future happiness and – more importantly – safety has been removed, but another has risen in Magnussen’s place. How the _fuck_ can Jim Moriarty be alive? Sherlock watched him eat a bullet right in front of him, and Mycroft had assured his brother that the body had been recovered, autopsied, and properly disposed of.

Buried, of course, under an unassuming headstone in some country graveyard. Better he’d been burnt to ashes, Sherlock thinks bitterly. Or stuffed and mounted in some musty back room of the Diogenes Club so someone could keep an eye on him at all times. Bastard had more lives than Molly’s cat.

God, why can’t the driver go any faster? Doesn’t he realize how vital it is they get to St. Barts? The security detail Mycroft had on Sherlock’s friends was lifted as soon as Moriarty’s assassins had been taken care of, and even though he was aware of how important his pathologist was to his brother after the last week, there hadn’t seemed to be any reason to resume surveillance on her. Sherlock knows Mycroft texted his PA, instructing her to patch them into the security cameras at the hospital, but like everything else today, it’s taking too fucking long.

He glances down at his mobile: still no answer to any of the seven texts he’s sent Molly. As he starts to send another one, a slim hand reaches out and covers his own. He looks up; Mary, of course. Her blue eyes are worried but softened by compassion. “She’s probably in the middle of an autopsy, Sherlock. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“Yeah, of course she is. I mean, just because Moriarty might be alive doesn’t mean he’d know how Molly helped you, right?” John pipes up. “He wouldn’t have any reason to go after her, and even if he did, why wait so long?”

“Maybe he’s just returned to London now,” Sherlock snaps. “Maybe he deliberately waited for a specific moment in time to make a move. Maybe Magnussen was a threat even to Moriarty, and now that we...I...removed that threat…”

John raises his hands in a surrendering, placating motion, although Sherlock deduces it’s more in response to his own growing agitation than the list of possibilities he’s offered up. “Right, got it. I’m an idiot and there are seventeen possible scenarios proving me wrong.”

Sherlock forces himself to take a breath, to calm himself as much as he can and offer John the closest thing to an apology he can manage right now. “Only twelve,” he says tersely. “But I...appreciate the gesture.”

“Just don’t want you to get all worked up over something happening to Molly when we don’t even know if anything’s happened at all,” John says soothingly. “There’s no point in worrying…”

“I’m not worried,” Sherlock snaps, feeling the weight of Mycroft’s gaze on him even as he avoids the knowing look in Mary’s eyes. “Molly can certainly take care of herself, she’s more than proven that. And of course even if I was worried it would be the same as if I was worried about Gavin or you or…”

“Yes, Sherlock, we’re well aware of your lack of sentiment when it comes to your ‘friends’,” Mycroft interjects, rather snarkily. “Just as you and I are both aware of the other mitigating circumstances regarding the young lady.”

“‘Mitigating circumstances’?” John echoes, brow furrowed in puzzlement as he glances between the two Holmes brothers. “What ‘mitigating circumstances’?”

“Nothing that need concern anyone in this car besides myself,” Sherlock answers, giving Mycroft a venomous look. To which the elder Holmes responds with nothing more than a supercilious smile.

Mary and John trade glances, which Sherlock steadfastly ignores. “We need to focus on this new threat to national security,” he says, turning his gaze out onto the passing landscape. Not that he notices any details, his mind far too busy deducing likely scenarios and plausible explanations for the rather suspect timing of Moriarty’s supposed return. Including… “Mycroft, please confirm this isn’t something you’ve cooked up to keep your baby brother from permanent exile?”

“Although it’s hardly beyond my capabilities, as you well know, Sherlock, no, I have nothing to do with this sudden takeover of the British airwaves and its fortuitous timing.”

His brother gives a small snort of disbelief, but drops the line of questioning. Instead, he elects to settle into his mind palace, as a way to not only keep himself occupied by going over everything he has stored there about Jim Moriarty – and any possible lieutenants or wannabes that might be masquerading in his name – but also to remind himself of the very many ways Molly Hooper has proven herself capable of keeping herself as safe as he claimed.

After a half-hour spent roaming his mind in search of any proof that he might have been mistaken about Jim Moriarty’s death three years ago, the touch of a hand on his knee brings him back to the outside world. He blinks and sees John leaning forward. “What is it?” he asks, instantly alert; the expression on his friend’s face is Not Good.

Instead of answering him, John nods at Mycroft. Sherlock gives his brother a sharp look, noting the way he fidgets with his mobile as well as the fact that his laptop is once again open. “There have been...developments,” he says, a note of almost sympathy in his voice as he turns the computer to give his brother a better look.

The image on the screen is no longer that of a digitized, taunting Jim Moriarty; instead, the man himself is staring directly up into the camera. The angle places the camera in the upper corner of a room; the room itself is instantly recognizable as the St. Barts path lab. Moriarty mouths the words, “Did you miss me? Well? Did you?” before deliberately reaching down to pick something up from the floor.

Sherlock’s fists clench on his knees; he barely hears his brother instructing the driver to speed up, brushes off Mary and John’s concerned questions, his focus entirely on the scene unfolding before his eyes. With a dramatic flourish, Moriarty – not dead, how is that bastard NOT DEAD? – holds out a white lab coat in both hands, deliberately angling it so the CCTV camera can catch every detail. The dark spots on the collar that, even in black and white, are obviously blood. The eye-glasses hooked over one pocket. And most telling of all, the name badge dangling from beneath the madman’s fingers.

Even the grainy image can’t keep that detail from Sherlock’s sharp gaze, and he mouths the name and title while his nails dig into his palms and his heart lurches in his chest.

Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar.

But of the woman herself, there is no sign.


	4. The Disappeared

“Mrs. Hudson says you’re not eating.”

No response. John tries again. “Sherlock, you have to eat, at least once in a while. And sleep, too. Gotta keep your strength up, mate, keep that famous brain of yours sharp.”

_That_ gets a reaction: a glare as Sherlock turns his head. He’s curled up on the sofa in his beige dressing-gown over his rattiest pair of pyjamas, his dark curls matted and unwashed, the bottoms of his bare feet equally filthy. “This ‘famous brain’ hasn’t been sharp enough to find Molly, John. It’s been nearly four months and _nothing_. Nothing but a plot to overthrow the government so childishly simple your daughter could have solved it, and a pile of untraceable ‘gifts’ from that bastard. He’s not even sending me on wild goose chases, no bread crumbs at all this time. He made that broadcast, kidnapped Molly and vanished into thin air. Fucking bastard,” he spits out, hunching his shoulders and turning his face away again.

“That ‘childishly simple’ plot is the only reason you’re still free to look for Molly at all,” John feels constrained to point out, even though he knows his friend is essentially correct. It hadn’t been Moriarty’s most creative effort, and if anyone asked (which of course they never did), John would have bluntly told them he thought Moriarty had only done it to ensure that Sherlock was pardoned for the crime of murdering a man who well deserved murdering. Even if ‘dear Jim’ only seems interested now in tormenting his adversary from afar.

From what little John can figure, Sherlock and Molly had become closer in the days before his exile. A lot closer than even their friendship could account for. But of course Sherlock refuses to answer any questions about the nature of their relationship, reiterating only that Moriarty must have realized that she’d helped him fake his own death and had taken her in retaliation for that. “She matters, John,” Sherlock had snapped the last time they’d spoken. “That’s all I have to say on the subject.”

Mary and John have their own, private opinions, of course, but have agreed to keep them strictly to themselves until Molly is found or returned. So as tempted as he is to try and dig for details again, John restricts himself to trying to coax Sherlock into at least showering and dressing himself. “Come on, you smell almost as bad as that opened coff..uh, as a rubbish bin,” he corrects himself hastily as Sherlock turns his head and glares at him again.

Great, just great, John thinks. He’s really put his foot in it this time, bringing up memories they’d both rather forget. Shortly after Molly’s disappearance, he, Sherlock, Mary and Mycroft had watched as Scotland Yard, specifically Greg Lestrade, supervised the exhumation of Moriarty’s supposed body, on the off chance that it wasn’t actually the miraculous return from the dead that it seemed. DNA testing needed to be done, in order to confirm that the face on the CCTV camera in the morgue wasn’t just a clever bit of plastic surgery impossible to pick out from the grainy footage. The possibility of an identical twin was discussed, Philip Anderson tentatively mentioned cloning, but in the end, the exhumation was approved and they’d gathered round to watch as the coffin was lifted from the ground.

Sherlock had opened it, wielding the crowbar as if he wished he were digging it into Moriarty’s throat rather than mouldering bronze-trimmed mahogany. John and Mary had traded uneasy glances, while Mycroft simply stood to one side, gazing impassively at his brother as he heaved the lid open. John hadn’t pressed Sherlock about whatever ‘mitigating circumstances’ he and his brother had been referring to in the car, but he’d resolved to discover the truth of it as soon the exhumation was completed.

The look on Sherlock’s face as the lid fell back with a dull ‘thud’ had brought the other watchers forward. Peering into the satin-lined interior, John had recoiled in disgust at the sight of a semi-decayed dog’s body that was the only occupant of the coffin. Mary had immediately identified it as an Irish Setter, which meant nothing to the rest of them but had caused the Holmes brothers to exchange grim glances.

“I never told Moriarty about him,” Mycroft had said, and Sherlock had nodded. When pressed, Sherlock had said only that they had had a family pet of the same breed when he was a child. John had wanted to press him for details, but it didn’t take that soft touch of Mary’s hand on his shoulder to tell him now wasn’t the time.

An exclamation from Sherlock had caught their attention, and John had been repulsed to see his friend carefully prising something from the dead dog’s mouth. It was a folded piece of paper that Sherlock opened up, grimly reading the message aloud: _‘The game isn’t to find your missing mouse, Sherly, but rather what you do with her when she’s returned to you’_.”

John knows now and had known then that there was no comfort to be taken in being told that Molly was going to be returned to them; after all, there was no indication that they’d get her back alive. He’d seen how hard it was for Sherlock not to just crumple up the offending piece of paper into a ball and possibly set it on fire; instead, he’d allowed Lestrade to place it into an evidence bag while at the same time spouting off a mechanical list of deductions: the note was written in blue ink on a simple piece of cheap, white, mass-manufactured copy paper, available in any stationery shop. The handwriting could possibly be Moriarty’s, possibly a clever forgery. All of which had been confirmed after the note had been subjected to analysis by both NSY and Mycroft’s team of specialists.

After they’d left the gravesite, Sherlock had gone to Molly’s flat, John by his side while Mycroft escorted Mary back to Baker Street to stay with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents were out of the country and now under 24-hour surveillance, thank goodness; one less set of people to worry about.

Once at the building housing Molly’s flat, Sherlock had left John to cool his heels in the foyer while he headed up the stairs to the third floor. He’d emerged an hour later with a bright orange cat carrier in one hand and a Tesco’s bag in the other that he’d handed off to John. Peering inside, he’d seen that it contained a jumble of tinned cat food, some bowls, and a half-full bag of kibble. It had been left to Mrs. Hudson to pick up a new litterbox and other pet supplies. Toby had hidden under the sofa for a week, Sherlock’s landlady had informed John when he was once again available to visit Baker Street, but was now more often than not to be seen curled next to Sherlock on either the arm of his chair or the sofa.

John had been unavailable during that first week because of course that’s when Mary had gone into labor. Their daughter, Alice Miriam Watson, was born the same night Sherlock received an untraceable package containing something he refused to discuss and a photograph of a widely-grinning Moriarty with his face pressed against that of a tight-lipped (but obviously terrified) Molly. On the back of the picture were scrawled the words, ‘wish you were here’ – but no clues as to where ‘here’ might possibly be, even after both Holmes brothers subjected it to their own peculiar brand of deduction.

A week after Alice’s birth, more gifts started appearing, if you could call them that. The first was a lock of hair, pulled and not cut with skin tags intact. Molly’s, Sherlock declared and DNA testing confirmed. Then the jumper she’d been wearing, analyzed and reanalyzed and frustratingly empty of clues. “Maybe it means they’re someplace warm, where she doesn’t need a jumper?” John had hazarded, only to be immediately shot down by twin glares from Sherlock and Mycroft.

“He’s just sending it to taunt us, John,” Sherlock had bit out. “If he wanted it to be a clue, the microscopic analysis we subjected it to would have revealed something like minute traces of volcanic rock found only in Tahiti. All we did find was an old coffee stain and a quantity of cat hair. All Toby’s,” Sherlock had added with a glare at the feline in question. Who’d simply blinked and continued licking his paw as if the disappearance of his mistress meant nothing to him.

As John is well aware, four long, torturous months have passed since then. Four months and nothing to show for it but a collection of untraceable ‘gifts’ from Jim Moriarty left to taunt and torment them. No fantastical jewel heists, no sudden spate of unexplained suicides, no kidnappings or poisonings that can be linked in any way to the returned-from-the-dead master criminal.

In short, nothing for either Sherlock or the Met to sink their collective teeth into. No one to chase, no new crimes to solve other than Molly’s kidnapping, nothing to occupy either Sherlock’s time or his mind. Even with the freedom to move about as he likes, with no breadcrumbs to follow, Sherlock rarely leaves the flat.

John heaves an inward sigh; no wonder his friend is brooding. But he bloody well doesn’t have to stink to high heaven while he does so, and John wastes no time in making that tart observation as he finally convinces him to shower, shave, brush his goddamn teeth and change his clothes.

While he grudgingly does so, John pops down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat to see if he can talk her into making tea, and to commiserate with her over their continued lack of progress.

**oOo**  

John is a bloody busybody, worse than Sherlock’s own mother or Mrs. Hudson at times, but he has a point, Sherlock reluctantly concedes as he gets a whiff of his unwashed self. Molly would certainly disapprove, were she here to scold him for not taking care of himself. But such mundane tasks can hardly keep his brain occupied enough to stop him brooding on how very badly he’s let her down – and how he continues to let her down. So far Moriarty hasn’t made one single mistake, not even in the taunting ‘gifts’ he’s been leaving. There weren’t any clues in the dead dog he’d had placed into his own grave, aside from the disturbing similarity the poor thing held to Sherlock’s long-dead pet, Redbeard. And all that had proven was that Moriarty had somehow managed to get his hands on even more intel about Sherlock than either he or Mycroft had known.

He’s been forced to erect very firm barriers in his mind palace between the new memories of those pathetic remains and his childhood memories of a very much alive Redbeard. The remains had been far too fresh to be the original dog of course, but the fact that Moriarty knew about him at all is disturbing.

He pushes those memories aside, focusing instead on the other items Moriarty has left behind. Molly’s lab coat and ID badge have been examined; the blood was identified as hers and hers alone (Type AB-, slightly iron deficient, not enough of a sample to get a sodding pregnancy test from and too soon to show anything even if they could), the entire lab has been dusted for prints...all for nothing. The CCTV cameras had gone black all over that area of London, including inside the hospital, for exactly thirty-two minutes after Molly’s disappearance.

Thirty-two minutes. Molly had just celebrated her thirty second birthday three months prior to her abduction. And of course Moriarty knows that; if there was any doubt, it was erased when Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street to find the first package waiting for him. It had apparently been delivered while Mrs. Hudson was recovering at her sisters, having gone a bit hysterical upon seeing Moriarty’s image on the television screen while hoovering.

He’d wanted nothing more than to tear the enclosed ‘selfie’ with its mocking message on the back into shreds, but had carefully set it aside for further analysis. The sight of the only other thing in the plain brown box had caused his breath to catch and his heart to stutter and pound in his chest as he recognized it: the birthday present Sherlock had given Molly only three months earlier, meticulously re-wrapped in the same bright red paper with gold trim.

A few specks of blood on the gift itself had proven to be Molly’s. Fresher specks than the blood on her lab coat, so definitely from an injury inflicted after she’d been kidnapped.

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns the water up a bit hotter, trying to drown his thoughts beneath the spray. His hair and body are clean enough to gain even his mother’s approval, yet he’s reluctant to leave the bath. What difference does it make? He’s just as stuck now as has been since Molly had been taken.

He pounds his fist against the shower wall in sudden fury. What the _hell_ is Moriarty playing at this time? It’s obvious _why_ he’s taken her, that he’s either discovered her part in helping Sherlock fake his death or else has simply realized that she’s more important than he’d initially been led to believe. No, his motive for taking Molly isn’t the question any more than his motive for sending these taunting reminders to Baker Street is.

The only question is what condition Molly will be in when she’s eventually returned.

Trying to deduce the answer to that question is slowly driving Sherlock mad.

A sound from just outside the bathroom door catches his attention. “Bugger off, John, I’m doing what you asked!” he calls out irritably.

No answer, only the sound of soft footsteps, nearly inaudible under the sounds of the water. Sherlock leaves it running as he steps quietly over the edge of the tub, listening hard as he wraps a towel around his waist. He slips into his bedroom through the adjoining door, silently grabbing up the pistol he’d had Wiggins illegally obtain for him after Molly’s kidnapping and his own subsequent pardon.

There’s no way to sneak out of his bedroom without alerting the intruder that he’s onto them; his only option is to slam the door open and hope the element of surprise will be enough of an advantage. However, as he speeds down the short hallway toward the sitting room, gun held in both hands, finger square on the trigger, he discovers only an empty flat; no one in the kitchen, the sitting room, the bath where the shower water is still running.

After assuring himself that Mrs. Hudson and John aren’t being held hostage by the intruder – and confirming that neither of them have come up to his flat – he checks the second floor and finds it just as empty as the first two. Mrs. Hudson remains in her flat, door locked, while John helps Sherlock double-check the rest of the building.

The only evidence that anyone has been there at all, aside from Sherlock’s own ears, is a small white envelope resting on the coffee table, half-covered by the usual pile of unpaid bills, unread magazines, newspaper clippings and case notes. Sherlock had noted its presence immediately but was more concerned with finding whoever had left it than reading its contents. Now that the building has been shown to be free of any unwanted visitors – and while John is busy contacting Mycroft to inform him of the latest development – Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa, heedless of his still-dripping hair and mostly unclad form, studying the small pasteboard rectangle with every faculty at his command.

No writing on the front of the envelope, a pastel yellow in color, 3 ½ inches by 5, standard size for an invitation or RSVP. He absently asks (orders) John to fetch him some latex gloves and tweezers, not removing his eyes from the envelope until both items are shoved into his hands. He ignores John’s mumbled, “you might say thank you” and focuses on the task at hand.

Lifting the envelope with the tweezers, he turns it over. The back has the standard triangular flap, meant to be licked shut, but of course Moriarty would never do anything so mundane. Instead, the envelope is sealed with red wax, embossed with (of course) the image of a magpie. After spending a few intense moments studying every sparse detail of the exterior, Sherlock rummages beneath the pile of papers on the coffee table and extracts a pen knife. He uses it to slit the top of the envelope, leaving the seal intact, then teases the contents out with the tweezers, brow furrowing as he takes in the details of the card.

John, who’s taken a seat next to him, leans closer and sucks in a breath at the sight of the brightly colored images printed on the small piece of paper. Baby ducks, lambs, puppies and kittens form a garish ring around a simple, two word statement printed in the white center.

“ _We’re expecting_ ,” Sherlock reads aloud in a hollow voice.

The only question is, to whom does the ‘we’ refer?


	5. The Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of possible rape.

**One Month Later**

Sherlock unlocks the front door and closes it behind him, making sure to lock it up tight. He looks in on Mrs. Hudson, who is puttering about her kitchen, and chides her for leaving her own door unlocked. “Sorry, dear,” she says. “But the front door was locked and you and I are the only ones with keys, well except for John and Mycroft of course, but I did have the deadbolt drawn. And with the alarms on the windows and the cameras you had your brother install, I doubt even Houdini could find his way inside here now!”

He tries not to scowl but it’s impossible; Mrs. Hudson puts too much faith in the electronic surveillance and not enough in Moriarty’s ingenuity. “Just keep your door closed and locked as we agreed,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Of course, dear,” she replies, and he can read the worry in her expression easily enough. Worry more for him than for her own safety, so he brushes it off as he automatically accepts her offer of tea and biscuits, although he’ll neither finish nor enjoy either of the refreshments offered.

He broods; he can’t help it, it’s all he’s capable of these days, or at least it feels that way to him. The sight of a letter Mrs. Hudson needs to post (to her sister in Leeds, whose children are once again giving her difficulties) reminds him of the one that had been left in his flat a little more than thirty days ago.

Those two words continue to haunt him. _We’re expecting._ Molly is pregnant, of that there is no doubt: a used (positive) home pregnancy test and small vial of urine arrived a week after the announcement. The urine was Molly’s and confirmed the announcement. But as for who the father is...Sherlock flinches away from the question. Even now he still can’t form the thought, the mere concept churning his stomach exactly as it had when he’d first read the message aloud.

John’s face had paled and his voice had faltered as he’d asked, “What does he mean? He can’t mean...he wouldn’t…”

“Don’t be stupid, John, it’s obvious what it means,” Sherlock had snapped, then refused to say another word on the subject, physically chucking the announcement at Mycroft as soon as he’d appeared. Then he’d gone to his bedroom, slamming the door shut and crawling into bed, cravenly wishing for some chemical means to ease the ache in his heart, the buzzing of his mind as the hateful word repeated itself over and over again.

Rape. Moriarty had more than likely raped Molly.

The word echoes and clamors in his mind even now; he discovers that his hands have clenched into fists and a cold sweat has broken on his brow, and he rises abruptly to his feet. “Gotta go, thanks for the tea,” he says, making sure to push his chair back under the table and heading out of Mrs. Hudson’s flat even as she says her good-byes.

He rakes his hands through his hair as he leaves the flat, careful to close the door behind him, listening until he hears the lock being engaged, then making his way down the hall to the stairs. He wishes he could find a way convince Mrs. Hudson that they’re all in danger until Moriarty is apprehended and Molly returned.

_No. Don’t go there. Don’t think about her or you’ll drive yourself mad, as Moriarty clearly hopes you will._

To distract himself, he reviews the steps he and Mycroft have taken to fortify not only Baker Street but John and Mary’s house in the suburbs, to ensure their safety as well as their daughter’s. Little Alice is an obvious target, but he’s confident that neither of her parents will allow anyone to touch so much as a hair on her head.

Nor will he. No matter how tightly his nerves have been stretched by Moriarty’s continued taunting, no matter how snappish he’s gotten with everyone he knows, he’s confident they’ll stand faithfully by his side. Just as he will remain loyal to them all, even Lestrade and the fools he works with, who’ve done absolutely nothing to help find Molly and bring her home.

The fact that his own efforts have been equally futile is not lost on him. He knows he’s let her down, badly, but can’t conjure up a single thing he could have done differently aside from pretending she doesn’t matter to him. And that, he’ll never be able to manage.

He pauses half-way up the stairs, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of the partially-open door to his flat. A door that should be closed and locked. He can hear movement, and his heart speeds up at the thought of capturing one of Moriarty’s minions. Even if the intruder is just a paid lackey, Sherlock knows he’ll get a great deal of satisfaction out of questioning them, whoever they are. And by questioning he of course means beating the shit out of.

He reviews the multiple scenarios possible in the blink of an eye before deciding on a course of action. Reaching beneath his suit jacket, he pulls his revolver from the waistband of his trousers, flattens himself against the wall, and makes his way up the remainder of the steps as quietly as he can manage.

At the top of the stairs, teeth bared in a dangerous grin, he softly clicks the safety off. Holding the weapon in both hands and taking a deep breath to center himself, he kicks the door wide open, immediately dropping into a crouch in case his opponent is also armed.

As he enters the flat, he hears the sound of something crashing to the floor in the kitchen, and turns that way, staying low but moving swiftly toward the interior door, adrenaline flowing through his system, every sense at highest alert. Once he reaches the kitchen, however, he slowly rises, hardly daring to believe his eyes, gun still aimed at the impossible figure standing before him.


	6. The Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The marvelously emotional first few paragraphs were written by broomclosetkink, for which I can't thank her enough!

It is the details that he processes first, as he is too overwhelmed by the enormity of this moment to grasp it in its entirety. Ceramic shards litter the lino, creamy tea spilled out like pools of blood. Small feet in mismatched socks, the toes wet. Small hands lifted up, shaking, indicating wariness and fear. Big brown eyes, huge in a pale face, dark with shadows and nightmares that he has been imagining for months on end. That narrow, mobile mouth he so loves (suddenly he recalls the taste of it, a visceral memory that hurts worse than a physical wound) taut, trembling, fearful.

And a stomach. Swollen, stretching the boundaries of a maternity blouse. Blue, patterned with white swirls. Very chic. Nothing Molly Hooper would ever pick for herself.

“Sherlock?” she questions, and it is her voice, _Molly’s voice,_ that drives home the reality of this moment. The whole world rotates, shakes, falls apart at the seams and begins to be roughly, cruelly pieced back together.

It takes several tries before he can click the safety back on. Carelessly he tosses the gun to the table, throat working. There are too many words vying for freedom, blocking him up so all he can do is croak out a sound that is almost, but not quite her name. And then he is moving, sharp and fast, the shattered remains of the mug crunching under foot as he wraps his arms around Molly Hooper and brings her tight against his chest.

For a moment, a terrible, awful moment, she is still. He realizes that he shouldn’t have touched her – God only knows what she has endured, suffered at the hands of that _monster_ he is so going to enjoy pulling apart, bit by bit, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of James Moriarty but globs of flesh and blood swirling down a drain. Something behind his ribs cracks, a fierce pain, and Sherlock unlocks his arms, takes a breath and starts to move back, but then – then –

Molly’s hands curl into his jacket. So tightly her nails are hard against his skin, despite the fabric between them. “ _Sherlock,_ ” she gasps, and then sobs, and suddenly she is weeping, openly, raggedly, as though he has punched his fist into her body and pulled out her heart. “Oh, God, _Sherlock,_ I thought – I thought – I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry –”

He holds her closer, soothing words pouring from his lips, unprecedented as he is entirely unequipped to soothe anyone. Her words are the ones that matter, edged as they are with guilt and shame. He knows why she’s apologizing, even though there is nothing for her to apologize for, and his anger towards Jim Moriarty coalesces into a white-hot rage, burning so fiercely and yet simultaneously sheathed in ice. The man will die. There is no other acceptable outcome after what he’s put Molly through.

Sherlock manages to navigate the two of them out of the kitchen without incident, guiding her past the puddle of spilled tea and shards of broken mug (she tries apologizing for that and he shushes her with a gentle kiss on her forehead) until they reach the sitting room. He pulls her down to sit next to him on the sofa, still holding her as if afraid she will vanish as soon as he lets her go.

As if fearing the same thing, she clings to him just as fiercely. The mound of her stomach appears to be on the large side for a woman just gone five months pregnant, and the question escapes his lips before he can think it through. “Who – ”

“I don’t know. I want a paternity test. For both babies.”

Both babies. The words make no sense at first, until understanding dawns. “Twins,” he says, eyes gone unfocused as he processes the information.

She nods. “Both boys, at least that’s what the doctor thinks.” A shudder wracks her frame and he tightens his hold on her instinctively as a fresh series of sobs escape her throat. “A top-notch obstetrician, Swiss, I think. N-nothing but the best, that’s what _he_ said.” Her eyes are downcast, flooded with tears, and all Sherlock can do is wait helplessly until the cascade of words comes to an end. “He kept me in this little place in Scotland, a cottage he called it but it was a prison. He drugged me; I was terrified he’d given me something that could hurt the b-baby, but I didn’t want to tell him I might be...that we’d...so I didn’t say anything, but he figured it out and that’s when he...when he…” her voice drops to a whisper. “That’s when he did it. He said...he said it was j-just in case. In case I w-wasn’t actually p-pregnant. That he was doing me a _favor_.”

There is disgust and disbelief in her voice, along with a rising hysteria. “So I don’t know who the father is, I just know it’s twins and they’re healthy and due in about four more months but I need to _know_ , Sherlock.” She looks up at him finally, and he nods his understanding, both of what she’s saying and what’s left unsaid. She needs the answer, even though it’s too late to do anything about it if the father isn’t who she wants it to be.

“And if it’s...not me?” he asks, somehow managing to keep his voice low and as soothing as he rubs his hand up and down her back. She leans against him as if he’s the only thing keeping her from collapsing, and he continues to do his best to keep his rage contained, when all he wants to do is rampage around the flat, smashing furniture and hurling breakables out the windows. If Moriarty appeared in front of him right now he’d have no trouble snapping his neck.

After a suitable amount of torture, of course.

Molly’s voice breaks him out of his bubbling rage, dragging him back to the moment, anchoring him in the here and now. Where he needs to be, at least until Molly is feeling less fragile. “I just need to know,” she whispers. “They’re my babies, Sherlock, I already love them so much no matter who their father is, but I need to _know_.”

“I’ll call John and Mary,” he promises. “They’ll do a full examination, and as soon as we can, we’ll get you the answer.”

She pulls away from him, just a bit, but it’s enough to make him frown. Has he said something wrong, something to worry or frighten her? Has something of his rage shown through in spite of his attempts to keep it out of her sight? “Sherlock, if it’s not...if they’re...his,” she says haltingly, “then it’s all right...I know you’ve been pardoned, he made sure to keep me up with everything going on back here,” she interrupts herself bitterly. “So if they’re not yours, I don’t expect…”

“Molly, you’ve said it yourself, they’re _your_ children,” he says roughly, his turn to interrupt her. “I want them in my life as much as I want you. No matter what.”

He hopes she believes him, because, much to his surprise, every word is true. He won’t look at the babies and see anything of Moriarty in them even if that bastard turns out to be the one who fathered them; he knows all he’ll see is Molly, who braved so much for his sake and theirs, and who deserves so much better than the wreck of a man she’s been cursed to fall in love with.

Even though all he wants to do is continue holding her, there are others almost as worried about her safety, and so with a great deal of reluctance he fishes his mobile out of his pocket. He fires off a text to multiple recipients: his brother, Lestrade, John, Mary, even Mrs. Hudson - somehow shouting down the stairs to her seems inappropriate just now. He shows Molly the text before sending it, and she nods her acceptance, lips thinned and body tensed as if bracing herself.

He wants to give her more time, but there is also her health to consider, hers and the babies. So he hits ‘send’ and the message goes out. 

_Molly’s here with me at Baker Street. Come at once. – SH_

**oOo**

Predictably, John and Mary are the first to arrive after Mrs. Hudson comes tearing up the stairs to enfold Molly in a series of damp, motherly hugs. Mary must have run every red light in London in order to beat Mycroft and his entourage. It’s a good thing she has trustworthy neighbors to watch baby Alice - Isaac Whitney’s mother tops the list - and that Mycroft and Lestrade will smooth over any traffic tickets she might receive in the mail.

A cursory examination confirms Molly’s assertion that she’s fine, that she’s been eating and getting as much rest as she can, that she hasn’t been suffering continuous abuse. “He only drugged me twice, when he took me and when he had me brought back here, and he only...” She draws in a ragged breath, holding tightly to Mary’s hands as she continues. “It was only during the first two weeks after he kidnapped me that he...touched me.” Her voice is shaking a bit, but she continues speaking. “He never, um, hit me or anything like that. After. Just had guards on the house where he kept me.”

She gives a detailed description of the cottage and the surrounding landscape to Lestrade when he arrives, but can’t describe her journey there or back again. She simply woke up in a strange bedroom both times - the second time being Sherlock’s bedroom, of course, less than an hour before he found her there. Sherlock silently hands over the note Moriarty left for her, bagged and untouched by anyone but Molly and the writer. A single word is written in the criminal’s distinctive handwriting: _Wait_. Which is why she didn’t go downstairs as soon as she realized where she was, in spite of every instinct screaming at her to do so. Instead she’d gone to the kitchen and found a mug, prepared a cup of tea, and did as the note requested. She’d waited.

And Sherlock had found her.

He’s standing by the window, hands tucked carefully behind his back, watching as Molly is fussed and cried over by everyone. ‘Everyone’ includes her friend Meena, whom Molly called (on his mobile since she had none of her own), Lestrade, Sally Donovan (who invited herself along but Sherlock has no serious objections since she and Molly are, amazingly, friends), John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson...even Mycroft’s PA ‘Anthea’ is expressing interest in something other than her Blackberry, and Mycroft...well, Mycroft is standing by the door but he’s blinking very rapidly, a sure sign that he’s more affected by the chaotic reunion happening in front of him than he’s willing to let on. But Sherlock knows his tells, just as Mycroft knows his, and the brothers exchange raised-eyebrow glances before returning their attention to the one who deserves it most.

Molly is currently seated in the middle of the sofa, Meena on one side, Sally on the other, Toby in the limited space allowed on her lap (and purring louder than Sherlock’s ever heard him before). John’s pulled his chair closer, and Mary is perched on the arm. She holds John close, her eyes still wet with happy tears. Lestrade is sort of hovering over the group in the background, clearly itching to ask Molly more questions, but even his instincts as a Detective Inspector can be overwhelmed by his concerns as a friend. So all he’s doing is smiling a great deal and asking Molly if she’s sure she’s all right. In fact, that’s all any of them are doing now, carefully avoiding any mention of where she’s been or who she’s been with...and none of them has asked about the father of her baby. Aside from John and Mary, they’ve barely mentioned her condition at all, and Sherlock knows it’s because they’re trying not to upset her when she’s just come back to them. Still, it’s making him edgy and fidgety and in that state he liable to say something he’ll later regret.

When he moves to leave the room, however, Molly awkwardly rises to her feet, smiling her thanks to Lestrade, who’s practically jumped over the coffee table to help her. “Sherlock? Are you all right?” she asks as she does her best to hurry over to him.

“Just getting the kettle on,” he lies, pretending he was only going into the kitchen, but she knows him too well to believe him. She gives him an understanding smile and pats his arm; he catches her hand in his, suddenly desperate for contact with her. He’s stayed back and allowed the others their joyous reunion, but he hasn’t liked being away from her. Not one bit. Molly squeezes his hand a little more tightly than necessary, and he picks up all the signs he’s been - not ignoring, but not focusing on. The lines of strain around her mouth and eyes. The tension in her shoulders, the trembling that she can’t seem to fully control.

Sherlock’s mouth thins and he turns abruptly to face the mob. “Right, everyone out,” he barks. “You’ve seen her, you know she’s safe and healthy and pregnant. Yes, I know you have questions; yes, of course she’ll need a more thorough medical examination and yes, she’ll give a statement to the Yard, Gavin, but all of that can wait for tomorrow.” He meets his brother’s gaze in a challenging stare. “Isn’t that right, Mycroft?”

His response is a slight frown, but eventually his brother nods. “Yes, of course. Miss Hooper surely needs her rest more than anything else right now. We’ll contact you in the morning.”

Neither he nor anyone else questions the fact that Molly is going to be staying in Sherlock’s flat, although Sally looks disapproving and Meena tries to offer to bring her back to her house. Molly thanks her and hugs her and promises to tell her ‘everything’. Privately Sherlock doubts that, but Molly’s friend seems satisfied so he keeps his opinion to himself.

Molly accepts hugs and kisses on the cheek from everyone. Sherlock tenses when Lestrade lingers a bit too long and whispers something in her ear. Molly catches his eye and gives him a reassuring smile and he relaxes - but still glowers at the detective inspector’s back as he solicitously escorts Mrs. Hudson down to her flat. John and Mary are the last to make their good-byes after Sherlock shoos the rest of the visitors out and down the stairs. While the two women are huddled over Mary’s mobile cooing over pictures of Alice (at Molly’s request), Sherlock takes his friend aside and asks him quietly if he’ll be available over the next couple of days.

“Of course,” John says without hesitation. “Mary and I talked about it on the way over. Anything you need, Sherlock. Anything we can do to get that bastard back for what he did…” His mouth works silently for a moment before he continues, his voice noticeably rougher. “You can count on me, mate. You can count on both of us.”

Sherlock nods, incredibly touched but unsure how to express his feelings - or indeed, if he actually wants to. This has been hands down the single most emotional day of his life and he is beginning to feel overwhelmed. Luckily Mary looks over and sees the distress he’s trying to hide; she gives Molly a quick hug and reaches for her husband’s hand. “Come on, John, time to let Kate get back to her own life, yeah? Alice must be missing us by now, and I know I’m missing her!”

John allows himself to be pulled out of the flat, making sure to close the door behind him. Then Sherlock and Molly are alone once more; he looks at her, she looks at him and then she is back in his arms without his even being aware of moving. Her head resting on his shoulder feels like the most natural thing in the world, and she makes no protest when he brings her to his bedroom. She allows him to tuck her under the covers, but when he makes to leave, to give her privacy and allow her to get the rest she so desperately needs, she reaches out and holds him by the wrist. “Stay,” she says.

And he does.


	7. The Results

Sherlock awakens the next morning after the first full night’s sleep he’s had since Molly was taken. There’s no confusion in his mind at the feel of another body against his; his memories of the day before are as clear and sharp as if they’d just happened.

He smiles, his first real smile since the day of his exile. He knows the happiness (yes, dammit, he’ll call it that) will evaporate like the morning mist at dawn, but for now he simply allows himself to _feel_ , his ever-humming mind temporarily at rest. And all because of the petite form lying curled next to his. Molly is back, she’s safe, and the world has reformed itself into a shape he can recognize after months of being flat and colorless.

The duvet has slipped down below the mound of her stomach, and he reaches to cover her back up. She’s still sleeping, her breaths slow and even, but her eyelids twitch and her lips curve into a smile at the same moment he sees a small ripple of movement across her abdomen.

The baby - babies - are moving. One of them is, anyway. He watches, entranced, as the movement is repeated. Impulsively he puts his hand on her stomach; she tenses and her eyes fly open, but her expression becomes one of relief as she focuses on him. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, chagrined. “And I shouldn’t have…”

She shushes him with a smile and shake of the head, resting her hand over his and keeping it in place when he would have pulled it back. “It’s nice. I like it,” she says simply, and he feels his heart give a little skip. All this domesticity should send him running, but he finds that all he wants to do is spend the rest of the day curled around Molly, protecting her and the two lives growing within her.

Unfortunately the domestic peace is shattered by the insistent buzz of his mobile; Molly hands it to him since she’s lying on that side of the bed. “Mycroft,” he says briefly after glancing at the screen. “No doubt he has a tedious day of medical exams and debriefing lined up for you. Unless you’d rather I put him off?” His eyes light up at the thought of foiling his brother’s intentions, but Molly shakes her head.

“No. I want to get it over with,” she says flatly, then pushes herself to a sitting position. Sherlock hovers over her, not sure if he should offer to help or let her do things on her own. They still haven’t talked about what her life was like while she was away, aside from the information she’d given John and Mary, and for the first time ever he’s hesitant to push someone into telling everything they know. She might hold a vital clue to capturing ( _killing, dismembering, boiling in oil_ ) Jim Moriarty, but for some reason he can’t bring himself to start asking the questions he knows he needs to ask.

As Molly shuffles over to the bathroom and closes the door behind her, he has a flash of understanding: he’s _empathizing_ with her. It’s such a rare occurrence it’s no wonder he couldn’t figure it out. He doesn’t want to hurt her, to make her detail everything that happened to her, to make her remember the place she was kept or the people who held her there (because Moriarty clearly wasn’t hiding himself away in the Scottish countryside this whole time).

But he will. He will do all those things and more. He and his brother will put her through a great deal of pain in order to discover the tiniest hidden clue in her memory

But not just yet. Not until after they’ve both showered and eaten and had coffee (decaf for her even though she loathes the stuff). Not until after she’s suffered through whatever multitude of medical tests John and Mary (and yes, the very best obstetrical specialists) deem necessary to determine the full state of her health, and that of the twins she’s carrying.

Sherlock jumps out of bed. Not because he wants to, but because his sudden attack of empathy makes him feel as if he ought to be doing something while Molly’s washing up instead of simply lounging in bed. So he heads for the kitchen and starts the kettle (in case she wants tea rather than coffee) and then he switches it back off because he HAS no decaf. Mrs. Hudson might, so he heads down the stairs after snagging his camel-colored dressing-gown and shrugging into it. He leaves the door to the flat open, hastens down the stairs and is soon pounding on his landlady’s door.

She opens it almost immediately, an alarmed expression on her face. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? Is Molly all right? Has something happened?”

“Tea,” he says, brushing past her and making his way to her kitchen. “You have decaf, yes? Or coffee? You’ve had it before, do you have it…” He falls silent as he sees the breakfast tray sitting on the counter next to her coffee maker. There are two cups and two plates, the former containing tea, by the aroma, and the latter heaped with two proper English breakfasts.

“I was just going to bring it up,” Mrs. Hudson says as she follows him. She’s fully dressed for the day even though it’s just gone eight o’clock. “Are you sure Molly’s all right? She’s not got morning sickness, poor thing, has she? Oh, that’s one thing I never regretted missing out on, I’ll tell you that! My sister went through quite an ordeal…”

“Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock replies, barely hearing her as he lifts the tray and turns carefully. He gives her a smile, knowing it’s not his most sincere but his mind is already back upstairs. “Molly’s fine as far as I can tell, she’s just washing up so I’m sure she’ll be glad to see this.” Then he heads out of the flat while Mrs. Hudson follows, admonishing him to give Molly her love. He promises to do so, kicks her door shut behind him, climbs the stairs far more slowly than he descended them, and reenters his flat. Casting about for a good spot to lay the tray, he ends up clearing a portion of the kitchen table with his elbow before setting his burden down.

Molly emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair still damp but neatly braided. It’s nearly five centimeters longer than it was when she was taken, and her nails, generally kept short and neat, are also noticeably longer. Stronger-looking as well, with a bit of gloss to them that’s entirely natural. Her skin is healthy beneath the pallor brought about by stress, and he predicts that she will soon have the glow that pregnancy gave Mary Watson once her own stressors (read: John’s discovery of her secret past and temporary rejection of her) had been eliminated.

Just as soon as they have the answer to the most important question, the one that will not allow her to truly relax until she knows the truth: who is the father of her twins?

**oOo**

 Like so many things in life, the answer to that question turns out to be far more complicated than anyone could have anticipated.

Molly endures both the medical examinations and the cross-examinations with equal stoicism. No, she has no idea why Moriarty decided to release her. No, she has no idea what additional mayhem he might be planning. No, she has no thoughts on where he might be hiding.

The cottage where she was being held is easy enough to find, and is predictably abandoned when they do find it. Sherlock and John accompany Mycroft’s MI-6 agents on the raid even though both Holmes brothers know there is no point to it. However, Sherlock needs to see it for himself, the place where Molly was forced to endure her captivity, and it is much as she described it: small, comfortable, homey even if you disregard the cameras set up in every room. Including, to his disgust, the bathroom. The people hired to watch her are long gone, and the place has been scrubbed clean and any personal belongings removed - with the exception of the clothes in the bedroom with the barred window. Maternity clothes, all high end and nothing like what Molly would have picked out for herself. Sherlock gladly gives them over to the SOCO team to be bagged and placed into evidence.

While he and John are out wasting their time in the Scottish countryside, Molly stays at Baker Street. There are agents keeping watch on the building at all times, some of them Mycroft’s, some belonging to the police, as well as more than one member of Sherlock’s Homeless Network. There’s also a guard stationed inside the front door, with whom Mrs. Hudson has been flirting and Molly has been doing her best to ignore. Sherlock sees her tension and understands that it’s because she feels like a prisoner again, but when he offers to have the man removed - forcibly if necessary - she smiles sadly and shakes her head. “No, it’s all right, Sherlock. Your brother’s just making sure I’m safe, and I appreciate it, I really do.”

When he returns from Scotland Molly is waiting for him. He’s been careful to stay in touch with her the entire time, even though it’s only been two days. He doesn’t even need John to remind him to message or call her, which surprises John but not Mycroft, who only gives him a sly smile when John comments on it.

The expression on Molly’s face, the increased tension in her body, and the envelope sat in the precise center of his otherwise uncluttered coffee table tell him all he needs to know. Wordlessly he removes his coat and scarf, hangs them up, and walks over to her. “We’ll open it together, if you like,” he tells her as he sits next to her on the sofa.

She nods jerkily, but allows him to settle her close to his side before reaching down to pick up the white rectangle holding the test results she’s been both anticipating and dreading.

Sherlock is easy in his own mind, having long since decided that it doesn’t matter what the document tells them. But as she reads the results out loud, his eyebrows climb up his forehead even as her voice falters and her hand drops to her lap. Automatically he puts his arm around her shoulder, but his eyes are unfocused as he searches his mind palace for the pertinent information.

“Heteropaternal superfecundation,” he murmurs. It’s the technical term for the situation he and Molly currently face (Molly much more than him of course): twins with different fathers.

He gives her as much time as she needs to process the unexpected information, waiting patiently until she finally lifts the piece of paper up and reads it again, silently this time. Then she drops it on the coffee table and rests her head on Sherlock’s chest. “Of course this is how it would turn out,” she says, her voice muffled but the weary resignation more than obvious. “Things are never simple where you two are concerned, why should this be any different?”

“If it helps, it doesn’t change what I told you after you were returned to us,” he says, somewhat hesitant about his choice of words. Does he sound comforting or merely selfish? Is he making this about him, will she be upset with him? Still, he has to continue, because he wants to make sure she knows how he feels. “They’re your babies, Molly, both of them. And I will love them…” A small hitch in his breath causes him to fall briefly silent; how inconvenient and annoying and _human_ of him. Mycroft would disapprove. “I will love them,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can, “as much as I love you.”

There. He’s said it. The three words he whispered to her before he left for his four-minute exile. He wills her to believe him.

She looks up at him and smiles softly. “I know, and you have no idea how much that means to me, Sherlock,” she says. Her lips tremble a bit as she adds, “And of course you know I, I love you, too.”

He tries valiantly to resist the urge to kiss her. They’ve been sharing a flat, sleeping in the same bed, unselfconsciously holding hands or embracing one another for a week now, but the only kisses they’ve traded have been chaste pecks on the cheek. He doesn’t want to risk traumatizing her after her ordeal, but he aches to show her that he still feels exactly the same for her that he did before she was taken. To put his money, as the saying goes, where his mouth is.

Molly takes the decision out of his hands, for which he will be eternally grateful. She tilts her head back just the smallest bit, wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, then guides his face down until their mouths meet. The kiss is far from chaste, although it certainly isn’t a prelude to passion, not this time. It’s tender and sweet and so full of emotion that a tiny part of Sherlock wants to panic and run away somewhere quiet to just process it all. Or possibly jam it away into a corner of his Mind Palace, where all his other unacknowledged emotions used to be hidden.

_Used to be_ being the operative phrase, of course. First it was a tiny wedge, when a certain Detective Inspector saw potential in a strung-out junkie and convinced him to find another way to still the endless whirling of his mind. Then another crack appeared when he helped put Mrs. Hudson’s husband in prison and made sure he got the death penalty. John Watson’s entrance into his life was the catalyst that allowed him to finally admit he wasn’t nearly as much of a sociopath as he’d liked to believe.

All of that has inexorably led to this moment in time, when William Sherlock Scott Holmes can acknowledge that sentiment isn’t always a fault, the love isn’t only a tool or a weapon or even a weakness.

Jim Moriarty is still loose in the world; Sherlock still has a price to pay for his murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, but as long as he is with the woman he loves, nothing else matters.


	8. The Interregnum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm

Life falls into a sort of routine for the next several months, moments of calm and normality broken up by outbursts of anger and tears that leave Molly limp and exhausted afterwards. At first she resists the idea of seeing a therapist, but when one such outburst ends up with Toby hiding in Mrs. Hudson’s flat for a week and more than one piece of Sherlock’s (easily replaced) crockery broken on the kitchen floor, she finally admits she isn’t handling things nearly as well as she thought she was.

John’s former therapist is consulted, as is Mycroft, and Molly finds someone she’s comfortable with, someone who passes Sherlock and Mycroft’s combined background checks and discreet interviews. Shortly after that Molly officially moves in with Sherlock and her personal belongings are brought out of storage. She tells him to sell or junk the furniture; none of it has any sentimental value, having been purchased on the cheap when she moved into her flat. Sherlock tells Mycroft who presumably tells Anthea and it’s all taken care of within a few days.

221B now features a functional kitchen, with all body parts disposed of and all experiments relegated to temporary storage in the unused basement flat. Sherlock arranges with Mrs. Hudson to eventually take over the lease and turn it into a fully functional lab, but for now other renovations take precedence. Renovations such as updating the bath on the second floor and turning John’s long-empty bedroom into a nursery. Two bassinets are installed in what is now Sherlock and Molly’s bedroom, and it seems that every flat surface is covered with baby items every time Sherlock returns. No matter what her emotional ups and downs, no matter what nightmares she suffers through, Molly continues to take joy in the idea of motherhood.

When they share the results of the paternity test with their friends, the expected questions erupt. Why didn’t Sherlock tell them he and Molly were romantically involved, how long were they together before the kidnapping, are they sure the results are correct, and too many other tedious inquiries Sherlock doesn’t bother to keep track of.

“It was my idea, I told Sherlock I wanted a baby,” Molly says, her voice soft but steady. They're sitting side by side on the sofa, while the others they invited - everyone who was called to greet her upon her return and who have continued to visit whenever Molly lets them, as well as a few others like Phillip Anderson - stand or sit around them. Mycroft isn’t there of course, but then, he already knew even before Sherlock and Molly did since the tests were processed by technicians working for him.

The others listen intently as Molly explains what she asked of Sherlock. She blushes a bit when Sherlock blandly confirms that neither test tubes nor turkey basters were involved, but the blush fades when he reaches over and firmly laces his fingers with hers. The smile she gives him is shy but happy, and any questions the others might have about the current state of their relationship are answered without either one having to say a word.

**oOo**

It’s not all idyllic domesticity, of course. Although Molly’s uncontrolled outbursts have stopped but she’s still skittish at times, still prone to extreme moodiness and nightmares and a baker’s dozen of other PTSD symptoms. Sherlock tries not to let his own simmering rage boil over in front of her, but he knows how well she knows him even if she doesn’t say anything about it.

To try and distract himself he takes on cases in between his ongoing search to find out where Moriarty has hidden himself away. The puzzle of why he’s done so - why he hid for three years before striking, why he took Molly only to let her go, why he’s gone back into hiding - is one he finds just as impossible to solve. Did he suppose Sherlock would reject her as ‘damaged goods’, or did he expect Molly to blame Sherlock for what happened to her? If so he’s doomed to disappointment, as the two of them have only grown closer and continue to do so as the months pass.

It isn’t long before Molly resumes as much of her old life as she can, although Sherlock would much rather she stayed safely at Baker Street. He even argues against her going back to work or even doing such boring, mundane activities as going to the shops or to the cinema with Meena and Mary, but she quickly shuts that attempt down. “No one’s ever going to tell me where I can and can’t go, Sherlock, not ever again,” she says fiercely, and he immediately backs down, chastised and shamed at being compared, however obliquely, to their mutual worst enemy.

Molly shows her forgiveness by kissing him after he mumbles an apology, tiptoeing up to press her lips to his. He basks in the closeness they’re sharing, even if they haven’t yet resumed their physical - well, sexual, to be blunt - relationship. It has nothing to do with the fact that she’s now nearly seven months pregnant and everything to do with him letting her set the pace. Even if Molly’s therapist doesn’t explicitly tell him that’s the best way to handle things, he easily deduces it from her reaction when he asks for her advice.

Being Sherlock Holmes, however, it isn’t long before he breaks down and brings up the subject with Molly. Not because he wants to have sex with her as soon as possible - although that certainly is part of it - but because he’s anxious for her to understand that he still wants her that way, whenever she’s ready for it. If she ever is. He doesn’t mean to just blurt it out to her, but that’s exactly what he does, one night after dinner with Mrs. Hudson and the Watsons. Molly enjoys holding Alice and doing such mundane tasks as feeding and changing her. Getting in the practice, she calls it, and even gets him to do it with her sometimes.

“I talked to your therapist,” he says as Molly carefully settles in next to him on the sofa. He’s raised up the legs by placing sturdy books under them to make it easier for her to get up and down. Before she can voice the angry protest he sees forming on her lips, he raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I know it wasn’t good, but I promise, I wasn’t trying to get her to tell me anything about your sessions. I would never do that.”

She subsides, her expression still troubled, but she gestures for him to continue. He hates being the one to put stress on her, but he needs her to understand and so he rushes on. “I asked her what I should say, how I should tell you that I still want to, maybe one day, not today obviously, but someday…” He takes a breath to try and center himself before continuing: “Molly, when...if...you’re ever ready for us to have sex again...I just want you to know that I would, too. Want that. Do want that, I mean,” he corrects himself, feeling the tips of his ears grow warm as he fumbles through the explanation. “But only if you do, too. And if you don’t, that’s fine, it’s all fine.” God, he’s babbling and sounds like a complete ass so he forces himself to shut up and wait for her reaction.

It isn’t long in coming. Molly pulls him down for a kiss. “I want it, never think I don’t,” she says softly as she rests her forehead against his when the kiss ends. “But not yet, I’m not ready for it. But knowing that you want it too, that means a lot to me.” She lets out a shaky laugh. “I wasn’t sure how to ask you about it, and Dr. Leroux said I should just tell you, that I shouldn’t be afraid of what you’d say. I guess now I know why she sounded so confident!”

“At least one of us sounded confident,” Sherlock mutters as he gathers her close. Molly turns her head and laughs again, nestling her head against his chest and holding him as tightly as he holds her.

**oOo**

Two weeks later Mike Stamford and the rest of the Barts’ staff welcome her back with open arms while Sherlock sulks and fumes silently - but only when she’s not looking. He wants her to have her life back, he really does, but he’s terrified of losing her again, and even the on-going presence of Mycroft’s bodyguards and Lestrade’s undercover cops and Billy Wiggins (acting as her least subtle follower) isn’t enough to ease his mind. Whenever she’s out of his sight, he worries, unless he’s deep in a case or following a potential lead on Moriarty. Only then is he able to push his concerns aside and focus, but only for the duration of whatever puzzle he’s unraveling. After that, his mind immediately flies back to her.

He frets over this change in himself, to the point that he’s finally driven to talk to John about it. “Sorry, mate, can’t help you,” his best friend says when Sherlock explains his concerns. “The fact of the matter is, you never stop worrying about them.” He’s cradling Alice in his arms as he speaks, and smiles down at her with an expression of such aching tenderness that Sherlock finds himself wondering if that’s how he’ll soon be looking at Molly’s twin boys. Then John glances over at Mary, busy in the kitchen, and Sherlock has his answer. Of course he’ll look at the boys the same way, just as he now looks at Molly the same way John does Mary. The same way his parents have always looked at each other, even when he was too blind to really see it.

His parents have met Molly, of course, shortly after he’d faked his death. They’re beyond thrilled at the thought finally becoming grandparents, and most of the piles of baby clothes and paraphernalia littered around the flat come from them. When Molly and Sherlock privately explain the situation of the babies’ parentage to them, they don’t even blink, just welcome Molly to the family and ask what her birthing plans are.

Sherlock leaves them to it; he knows he’ll be there even if (as he’s calculated is more than 40% likely) Molly ends up giving birth via Cesarean section. Everything else is irrelevant. But he dutifully listens when his mother warns him that nothing can truly prepare you for the birth of your children, nodding and hmming at the right times. Molly scolds him when they leave his childhood home and drive back to London. He pulls over to the side of the road and pulls her into his arms as best he can around the mound of her belly and kisses her. “What was that for?” she asks, breathless but smiling.

“For being you,” he says simply, then starts the car up and takes her home.

**oOo**

There are days like that, and there are days when all he does is snap and growl at everyone. Those are usually the days after another lead turned out to be a dead end. John usually takes the brunt of his frustrations due to simple proximity, but he’s just as happy to take it out on Lestrade and Mycroft, since the Met and MI6 are, in his own words, utterly useless. Lestrade tells him to piss off more than once and while Mycroft appears as aloof and unruffled as always, at least to the untrained eye, Sherlock knows he’s just as keen as he is to find Moriarty and deal with him once and for all.

Molly, in fact, seems to be the only one who can do anything to keep him calm, and it amazes his friends and family alike to see her able to stop him mid-rant by just placing a hand on his arm, or running her fingers through his hair. The first time John walks into the flat and sees Molly sitting on the end of the sofa, Sherlock’s head resting on her hip and Toby the cat resting on his hip, he bursts out into a fit of the giggles. “Sorry, mate,” he says when Sherlock lifts his head and glares at him. “But you have to admit, it’s a bit, I dunno, funny. Seeing you all...domesticated.”

Instead of immediately launching into a diatribe about how he doesn’t do domestic, Sherlock simply nods and lays back down. Molly’s fingers continue to stroke through his hair, but he pulls her hand down and kisses her fingertips before speaking. “It is funny, isn’t it? It’s funny how you never know you want something until suddenly you have it.” He twists his head up to look at Molly and John suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something entirely too intimate. He makes his excuses and leaves, and Sherlock knows he’s on the mobile to Mary before he’s hit the bottom step.

“They just have to get used to it,” Molly says softly. Sherlock cranes his neck so he can look up at her. She isn’t upset or even mildly bothered that their friends (yes, he can admit to having more than one friend now, thank you very much) still seem doubtful of their relationship. “And you can’t blame them, Sherlock. After all, aren’t you the one who said alone protects you and that sentiment is a chemical defect…”

“...found on the losing side,” he cuts in impatiently. “Yes, I said that, but for God’s sake, you’d think they’d believe the evidence of their own eyes!” He gestures to her stomach and she giggles and his heart clenches at the sound. Even though she’s doing everything she can to regain as much of her old life as possible, it’s still been far too long since he’s heard her actually giggle. Much as he rolls his eyes when she does it, he can’t wait till she finally relaxes enough to tell one of her trademark awkward jokes.

It’s not long after her return to work that she lets him know she’s ready for something more than simply sharing a bed for sleeping. They’re on the sofa watching something utterly boring on the telly when she turns and pulls him into a kiss. One heavy snogging session later he’s visualizing the best position for them to make love with the least amount of discomfort for her. Even with the extra weight of the twins he knows he can easily support her, but he doesn’t want to make her do all the work so perhaps if she leans on the back of his chair while he stands behind her…

He doesn’t realize he’s been mumbling this aloud while divesting her of her clothing until he hears her giggle and say his name. “Sherlock, you are an amazing man, did you know that? But sometimes,” she added as she gently pulled his hands away from the buttons of her blouse, “you overthink things.”

He can feel a tightness in his chest; has he misread the situation, does Molly not want this after all? He’s rushing things, of course she isn’t ready; stupid, stupid...but as he mentally berates himself and prepares to offer a very sincere verbal apology, she pulls him down for another heated kiss. “Bedroom,” she murmurs, an echo of their very first sexual encounter, and he hurries to comply, helping her to her feet and holding her closely as they walk down the hall.

Once inside he cups her face in his hands and kisses her again, turning his lips to her ear and murmuring, “Are you sure?”

She laughs, just a small laugh, and runs her thumbs over his cheekbones. “Of course, you daft man. I love you.” She kisses the tip of his nose and pulls her hands away from his face. “Go lock the door, will you? I’d hate to be interrupted by Mrs. Hudson!”

“Or John,” Sherlock agrees with a small laugh of his own. “Can you imagine the trauma of him walking in on us making love?”

He sees the way she reacts to his choice of words, and is glad he didn’t say anything as crass as ‘having sex’. Her smile deepens, her cheeks pinken, and her hands flutter before settling onto the buttons he’s already got half undone. “Door,” she reminds him when he stands there admiring her.

“Door, right, back in a tic,” he says, spinning on his heel and practically sprinting the short distance to the sitting room. The door is shut and he locks it; on his way back to the bedroom he pauses and pulls his mobile out of his jacket pocket and drops it on the kitchen table. He wants no interruptions tonight. Not until he’s finished worshipping every inch of Molly’s body.

She’s lying on the bed when he returns, covered only by a sheet. He hurries out of his clothes, desire burning and thrumming in his veins, most notably in his cock. He pauses before removing his trousers and pants, scanning Molly anxiously for any sign of distress. Seeing nothing but anticipation, he hooks his thumbs into his waistbands and tugs his remaining clothing down and off his body. Molly sighs and holds her arms out to him and he joins her on the bed.

The gentle touch of her tongue against his when they kiss sends a frisson of desire down his spine; the taste of her skin beneath his lips as he kisses his way down her body is the sweetest nectar. He mouths her breasts, so much larger than used to be and flushed with warmth, careful not to apply too much pressure to her sensitive nipples. She moans and threads her fingers through his hair, urging him closer, and he suckles contentedly at each breast in turn until the rest of her body beckons him to continue his explorations.

He kisses his way over the mound of her belly, stopping to rest his ear against the restless movements he feels beneath her skin. Reaching up he gropes for her hand, interlacing their fingers as he begins moving again. She opens her legs when she gleans his intent, wordlessly giving permission for him to explore as much of her as he chooses. He brushes his lips against the wiry curls between her legs, his tongue darting out to taste her. She gasps and sighs, her hand tightening on his, and he glides the fingers of his free hand over her sex, gently easing her wet folds apart so he can better reach her.

He keeps the movements of his tongue slow and languid, his eyes squeezed shut as he tastes Molly for the first time in nearly seven months. There’s a slight difference that he attributes to her pregnancy, but by no means does he find it off-putting. Indeed, the way she writhes and gasps as he laps up her juices only inspire him to continue taking his time, to try and draw out her pleasure for as long as he can.

However, biology conspires against him; apparently the anecdotal evidence he’s researched appears to be correct, and Molly is soon crying out his name and digging her nails into the back of his hand as she comes. He gives her labia one last, tender swipe before pulling himself back up to lie behind her, both of them on their sides, his arms around her and his lips on her shoulder as she gets her breathing back under control. “God, Sherlock, that was amazing,” she moans when she regains the power of speech. “Thank you, thank you…”

He shushes her. “Don’t thank me, Molly. It was my pleasure.” Some devil makes him add, “I mean, I wanted to.”

She immediately gets the reference, just as he knew she would, and they chuckle together at the memory of their day spent solving crimes. “So much wasted time,” she sighs as the shared laughter fades.

“I know, I was an idiot,” Sherlock immediately responds. “But I’m more than happy to make up for lost time now. If you’ll let me.”

She shifts so that one leg is resting on top of his, his erection pressing insistently against the cleft of her ass. “Please,” she says simply, and he kisses her shoulder again before moving so that he can slide into her. She tenses a bit as he nudges her opening with the head of his cock and he immediately stills. When she presses back against him with a small noise of protest he smiles against her shoulder and slowly eases his way inside. Once fully seated he pauses until she bucks against him, the noise she makes even more impatient. Then he begins moving, slowly at first but soon speeding his pace as she reaches back to grip his hip. It’s not long before she’s moaning out his name and clenching around him, and soon after that he’s biting down on her shoulder, groaning against the sweet, sweaty flesh and pulsing deep inside her.

They lie together until they’ve come down from their mutual highs, breathing back to normal and heartbeats slowed. Sherlock gets a soft wet cloth from the bathroom and returns to clean them both up, only to find Molly struggling to her feet with a look of pure terror on her face. He drops the cloth instantly, rushing to her side, his eyes sweeping her from head to foot. “What’s wrong? Is it the babies? You’re not in labor are you?” There is dampness between her legs and on her thighs but it’s impossible to tell if it’s just the detritus from their lovemaking or if her water’s broken.

He’s reaching out to place his hands on her belly, to feel if it’s hardened with a contraction when she steps back, putting up a hand to stop him. “No, it’s not that, the babies are fine.” Her face crumples and she puts her hands up as she begins sobbing. “I know it’s stupid, but it’s just...we didn’t use protection, and I know my tests were clean but I haven’t had the follow up test yet and what if I...what if he…”

Sherlock gathers her into his arms and holds her close. She clutches onto him desperately as he does his best to reassure her. “Molly, if there’s one thing Jim Moriarty would never do, it’s expose himself to any sort of STD. Remember, he said he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.”

“He got more than his hands dirty this time,” she spits out, sudden anger replacing her terror. A defense mechanism, Sherlock’s mind automatically supplies, coupled with her ongoing PTSD and mid-pregnancy hormones. But it’s the first time she’s said anything to him about what Moriarty did to her - the first time she’s mentioned the rape - since her return, and painful as it is for him to hear, he knows it treble the pain for her to have to live with. Especially since the consequences of the act are impossible to ignore.

“Still, my prior statement stands,” Sherlock says when she falls into a brooding silence. She’s allowing him to continue holding her, hasn’t broken free of his embrace, and he counts that as a win. “He wouldn’t expose himself to anything like that, ergo you haven’t been exposed to anything like that, and neither have I.”

She looks at him, lifts her head from his chest and really looks at him, studying his features as if she’s seeing him for the first time. He wonders if what he’s said is what John would term A Bit Not Good and frantically searches his mind for a way to backtrack or apologize (he always feels like he needs to apologize around her) when she pulls his head down and kisses him. Hard. Tongue between his lips, teeth nipping, fingernails scratching against his scalp.

He not only allows the violence of her embrace, he welcomes it - encourages it, even. Allows her to push him down on the bed and clamber on top of him, awkward and fierce, just the way he’s always known her to be. She’s working him with her hands, which are firm but delicate in spite of her current state of emotional distress, and it doesn’t take long before he’s hard and ready for her. She lifts herself up and doesn’t so much lower herself onto him as impale herself, thrusting down so that he immediately finds himself sheathed inside her. He gasps at the sensation, reaching up to hold her hips, to keep them both steady. She begins furiously working herself up and down, one hand on her stomach and the other clutching the top of his thigh.

She comes almost explosively, a veritable howl ripping from her throat; with a few hard pumps he joins her, the clenching of her interior muscles impossible to resist.

This time she falls asleep after he brings a flannel to clean them both up, her breathing deep and even when he returns from dropping the soiled cloth in the bathtub. He eases himself beneath the covers and fits her body against his. Spooning, he thinks it’s called. Irrelevant. She’s worked off some of her fear and helplessness, and sore as they’ll both be in the morning, Sherlock knows it was well worth it. He rests his hands on her stomach and joins her in sleep.

**oOo**

Six weeks later they’re at St. Barts, Sherlock holding Molly’s hand and mumbling encouraging noises as John and Mary work behind a surgical screen to remove the twins from her body. She’s calm, at least outwardly, but Sherlock can see the faint line between her brows even as she gives him a false smile. “As long as they’re healthy,” she whispers, more to herself than to him.

Nonetheless he replies, trying his best to offer comfort because he knows how much she wanted to have a natural, vaginal birth. “Statistically speaking, it was much more likely that you’d have a C-section, especially given your relatively small size and of course factoring in your age…”

“Not helping, Sherlock,” Mary’s voice rings out, only slightly muffled by the mask she’s wearing. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, hinting at her smile as she looks at Molly. “Almost done, luv. Soon you’ll have your boys in your arms and you won’t care how they got there, I promise."

And so it proves. As soon as Daniel John and Robert Gregory Hooper-Holmes are placed in Molly’s arms, both squalling at the top of their minuscule lungs, all her tension eases. Sherlock watches in wonder as the kisses the top of each dark-haired head, then meets his gaze with a wide smile on her lips and more than a hint of moisture in her warm brown eyes. “Say hello to your sons, Sherlock.”

He leans down and echoes her earlier gesture, placing soft kisses on each boys’ forehead. “Hello Danny, Rob. Welcome to the rest of your lives.”

He hears a sniffle from behind them and knows without looking that it’s John and not Mary, but chooses to overlook, just this once, the opportunity to take the piss with his best friend. He kisses Molly softly, tenderly, and smiles at her and their boys as she cuddles them close.

  
He has far better things to do with his time right now.  



	9. The Purge

They have exactly thirty days to get used to the idea of being parents, of learning to deal with the two tiny but demanding human beings for whom they are responsible. Thirty days before Moriarty makes his presence known again. And in true Moriarty style, he announces it with a body - or rather, a series of bodies.

The first one is found inside a dumpster in a small town in the northern part of Scotland, about 30 km from the house where Molly was kept. It’s the woman Molly nicknamed ‘Mrs. Badcrumble’ (for her thick Scottish accent) who was her overnight inside guard on weekdays. Late fifties, heavy-set, short gray hair, nothing remarkable about her features with one exception: she’s undergone extensive plastic surgery on her face. Nothing so obvious as a facelift, just a few subtle changes to the shape of her nose and size of her lips. The surgery is fairly recent, and clearly designed to foil any attempts to discover her true identity via the use of facial recognition software. It’s an effective method, and has kept the woman safe from discovery until Moriarty decided he had no further use for her and had her killed.

There is no question as to cause of death; her throat was slit and she bled out, although the original kill-site is unknown. When she’s brought into the local coroner’s office her photograph is automatically circulated to various law enforcement databases, including the one monitored by Mycroft’s technicians.

Molly and Sherlock are flown out to positively identify her, leaving the boys in John and Mary’s care. Molly frets visibly, while Sherlock manages to keep his own restlessness hidden from everyone but her. Once they arrive he puts his personal feelings aside (finding it more of a struggle than usual) and does what he does best: assesses the evidence, reads the clues, learns what he can.

What he can learn, as it turns out, is precious little. No relatives have come forward to claim the body, and no one saw said body being dumped. Her throat was slit, and it’s obvious from the lack of blood that she was killed elsewhere. No clues on her body as to where that elsewhere might have been.

“She won’t be the last,” Sherlock predicts after he’s learned all he can from the body and dump site, and Molly has confirmed that she is, indeed, one of her former captors. “Moriarty’s cleaning house.”

His words prove prophetic when a second body turns up a week later, this time at St. Barts. Mike Stamford sounds shaken when he calls her up, apologizing for bothering her when on parental leave, but once he explains the situation she agrees to meet him at the morgue immediately. Her voice is steady as she explains to Mrs. Hudson and the nanny/bodyguard Mycroft insisted on employing for her, then she calls Sherlock and arranges for him to meet her.

“I called her ‘Lady Bodiceripper’,” Molly says when Mike pulls back the cloth to reveal the dead woman’s face. “She used to read the most awful romance novels, really terrible ones, when she was on duty on the weekends, barely spoke to me at all.” She bites her lip and her hand creeps into Sherlock’s; he holds it tightly and steps subtly closer to her as he makes his own examination of the body. Late 30s, bleached blonde shoulder-length hair, teeth nicotine stained but otherwise surprisingly well kept...he files away all the pertinent details including the most important: like ‘Mrs. Badcrumble’, she’s had her throat slit, and has undergone plastic surgery to alter her facial structure.

DNA testing from the two women will eventually identify them as fugitives with multiple warrants out for their arrests on charges ranging from prostitution to drug dealing to extortion, but that’s in the future. Right now he has two bodies, each of them deliberately dumped in proximity to locations associated with Molly.

He doesn’t like it, not one bit.

“Why kill them now?” Lestrade wonders when a third body shows up a week after ‘Lady Bodiceripper’, aka Phyllidra Tuppins. This one is male, late forties, one the two men who kept watch outside in case Molly managed to overcome one of her female minders and tried to escape, whom she’d dubbed Thing One and Thing Two because of their physical similarities: big, beefy caucasian males in the their mid to late 30s with dark, short-cropped hair and no necks to speak of. The tell-tale signs of plastic surgery are there, and his throat, like that of his female counterparts, has been slit - a more difficult job than for the other two victims, is Molly’s awkward attempt at gallows humor. Any attempts at whistling in the dark end as soon as Lestade tells her where the body was found: inside her former flat, which is currently unoccupied due to renovations. Everyone involved understands the unspoken message: Moriarty isn’t done with her, not by a longshot.

“I told you, he’s cleaning house,” Sherlock replies absently to Lestrade’s question. He and John are studying the body while Sally Donovan urges Molly to drink the cup of tea she’s brought her from the canteen.

“Yeah, I get that, but why now? Why not do it right after he let Molly go?” Lestrade persists, giving her an apologetic look as the words leave his lips. “Doesn’t make sense, him waiting this long. What if one of them had cracked before now? And why space them apart like this? What if the other chap gets wind of it and decides to come to us for protection?”

“He doesn’t care if he comes to us or not,” is Sherlock’s response. “He won’t know anything of value even if he does, Moriarty’s far too cagy for that. The only one who might be of use is the one he’s least likely to dispose of, the bodyguard, Sebastian something or other. As for why he waited til now…” He flicks a glance at Molly, who meets his gaze squarely if somewhat fearfully.

“He waited for me to have the babies,” she says, finishing his sentence. “He waited for me to be recovered enough to travel to Scotland to identify Mrs. Badc...Macy Steppenham’s body.” A shiver wracks her frame, and when she speaks again, it’s in a whisper. “He’s coming back for me.”

**oOo**

Molly brushes off all attempts by the others present to console her or to tell her that she’ll be safe, that no one will let Moriarty anywhere near her. He shouldn’t have been able to take her away from them in first place, in broad daylight from a busy urban hospital; he shouldn’t have been able to keep her hidden for five months and then deposit her back into London - into Sherlock’s very flat! - without getting caught. And yet he’s managed both these feats, and Molly knows that if he wants her, he’ll simply waltz back into her life and take her.

Her, or someone precious to her.

Sherlock, as he always does, immediately notices when her thoughts fly ahead of the cab to their sons. “They’re fine, I’ve just had a message from Mrs. Hudson.” He shows her his mobile, and the picture of their landlady holding both boys and smiling happily at the camera. It’s the nanny, Adella, who’s taken the photo of course. She’s wonderful with them, a much more comforting presence in the flat than Charlie or Henry, who alternate as night guards in the building.

“She’d never let anyone take them,” Molly says, touching a finger to the screen and forcing a smile.

Sherlock frowns and she lets the facade drop; there’s no point in it. “I’ll kill him myself before I’ll let him take them,” she says fiercely, knowing what an empty threat it is even as she speaks it. But she means it; she will kill Jim Moriarty without blinking and step over his cold corpse if that’s what it takes to keep her children safe.

“He’ll never be allowed near either of them,” Sherlock replies quietly, but just as fiercely. “Nor you.” He shifts in his seat, resting his arm across the back, and Molly accepts his unspoken invitation. She huddles close to him, still clutching the phone and staring at the picture of her sons. Sherlock’s arm drops over her shoulder, and she takes comfort in the warmth and solidity of his body as he holds her close.

She thinks back to the time John walked in on them and made that comment about domesticity. Yes, Sherlock’s managed to fit her and the twins into his life far more easily than anyone (herself included) could have imagined ten months earlier, but even when he’s holding her like this she knows he’s still himself. He’s still the prickly, moody man-child she fell in love with. She doubts he’ll ever remember things like anniversaries or birthdays (well, except for Danny and Rob’s of course), or be willing to take trips to the beach or go to the cinema with her, but he loves her and she loves him and their lives have never been what anyone would call normal. “It’s all good,” she murmurs, and smiles a genuine smile when he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“It is,” he murmurs, and she allows herself to relax just the smallest bit. When Moriarty decides to make his move, this time Sherlock will be there to help her deal with him.

And God help him if he so much as touches a single hair on either of her son’s heads.

**oOo**

Two days pass without further developments, and then Sherlock receives a call from Lestrade. “Guess who’s shown up at the Met to ask for protection.”

“Thing Two?” he replies immediately, glancing over at Molly. She’s currently nursing Danny while Rob lies cradled in Sherlock’s free arm. Both boys look very much like their mother, with brown eyes and hair, but Danny’s hair has a hint of curl to it and Molly swears she can see his cheekbones sharpening beneath the baby fat, which is patently ridiculous. Which opinion he keeps strictly to himself, per John’s advice about not annoying a nursing mother. Painful experience had taught him that one.

“Nope.” Lestrade’s gleeful denial catches Sherlock’s attention; he frowns and is about to demand an explanation when the Detective Inspector continues, “One Sebastian bloody Moran, Moriarty’s former bodyguard and the assassin who had John Watson in his sights the day you jumped of the roof of St. Barts. Care to sit in on the interrogation?”

Sherlock doesn’t need to be asked twice. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

He kisses Rob on the forehead before laying him in his Moses basket at Molly’s feet. She’s been listening to his side of the conversation of course, her mouth turned down and the faint line between her brows growing deeper and deeper as her tension rises. Danny makes a dissatisfied noise when she starts to stand up, and Sherlock quickly shakes his head and gestures for her to sit back down.

“You know he doesn’t like you to move around a lot when he’s feeding,” he reminds her testily.

“Then tell me what Greg said,” Molly shoots back, just as testily. However she also eases back onto the sofa while Danny settles back into his almost-interrupted meal, his little fingers kneading her breast while his mouth works.

Sherlock quickly details Lestrade’s unexpected news, and Molly’s agitation turns to excitement. “Oh, Sherlock, that’s fantastic news! This could be the break you need to find Moriarty! I have to come with  you to NSY,” she insists. “I’ll call Adella, see if she can come in today, or ask Mrs. Hudson or your mum to watch the boys.”

He leans down, kissing first Danny’s head and then Molly’s forehead, knowing he’s about to disappoint her. “Not this time, Molly. My parents are in Devon, remember? And Mrs. Hudson is at her hair stylists. John will be joining me which means Mary will have her hands full with Alice.” At her rebellious expression, he crouches down so that he has to look up slightly to meet her gaze. “Molly, I promise I’ll keep you posted if there are any developments.” He hesitates before admitting, “And I’ll feel a lot better knowing you’re nowhere near him, that you and the boys are safe here with Chuckie guarding you.”

He gets a half-smile at his (deliberate) mis-remembering of Charlie’s name, but he can tell she’s still not happy about it. However she eventually nods her agreement, even going so far as to lean forward a bit so she can kiss him. Danny squawks another protest at the change in position, his little fist waving furiously before Molly catches it in her hand and eases herself back so he can continue nursing. “Fussy little thing,” she says fondly, then returns her attention to Sherlock. Mother love transforms into fierce determination as he watches. “You get every scrap of information out of him that you can, Sherlock, you hear me? You learn everything he knows.”

“I will,” he promises, knowing it’s a promise he’ll have no problem keeping. He knows Lestrade has already informed Mycroft, per their standing agreement, which means government experts will be on hand to assist in the interrogation.

And by ‘assist’ of course he means ‘pretend not to notice when Sherlock does things not quite by the book’.

Which, for the record, he’s quite looking forward to doing.


	10. The Showdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left after this one, hope you've enjoyed the ride so far!

Both boys are sleeping when Molly hears the sound of an altercation coming from downstairs. She eases toward the door of the flat, her heart in her throat as she hears some heavy object crashing to the floor. She knows it’s Charlie even without being able to see what’s going on, although seconds later Mrs. Hudson crying out the guard’s name confirms her suspicions.

“Now, now, Mrs. H, no time for hysterics. If you know what’s good for you you’ll let my man tie you up without giving him any difficulties.”

Moriarty. Oh God, she’d know that voice anywhere, recognized its lilting cadence before he’d spoken more than a single syllable.

She closes and locks the door, knowing it will buy her seconds at most. Her mobile is in her hand and she’s dialling 999 when the door bursts open, splintering in its frame as the man she’d dubbed ‘Thing 2’ comes crashing through it. Moriarty follows in his wake, fastidiously stepping over the debris while his lackey snatches the phone from Molly’s hand and drops it to the floor, crushing it beneath his boot heel.

“The line was open,” Molly finds the courage to say as she backs away from the two men, toward the bedroom where her boys are now whimpering in their cots. The noise from downstairs hadn’t awakened them, but the breaking of the door was impossible to sleep through. “They’ll send a car round to see what’s going on when they can’t get through to me again.”

Moriarty tsks and shakes his head, his expression a mockery of sorrowful disappointment. “Wro-ong,” he sing-songs as he moves forward, gesturing for ‘Thing 2’ to stay where he is. Moriarty’s hands are in his pockets but the other man is now calmly pointing a gun at her. “The signal is being blocked by this.” He pulls a small, black rectangular device from one pocket, shows it to her, then shoves it back in. “Mycroft’s surveillance has been hacked as well, in case you think your future brother-in-law is coming to the rescue. As for the idiots the police have watching this place?” He rolls his eyes in exaggerated disdain. “Amateurs. The members of Sherlock’s Homeless Network were harder to evade.”

As he speaks, a light dawns. “You planned this. This is why Sebastian Moran turned himself in. He’s not really seeking police protection, he’s acting as a distraction. To keep Sherlock and Mycroft and Greg busy while you…” She falls silent, unable to finish the sentence. Not because fear robs of her voice, although it very nearly does so, but because she isn’t sure which horrific scenario Moriarty intends to play out.

“Give the lady a prize,” he says, clapping his hands together delightedly.

“The only prize I want is for you to leave me and my children in peace,” Molly says tightly.

Moriarty tsks and shakes his head sadly. “Sorry, Molls, no can do. Well, actually I can sort of do. I’ll leave you and Sherly to live out your lives in boring domestic bliss, and even let you keep my son to raise since I know you’ll do a better job of it than I could.”

Her heart in her mouth, Molly whispers, “What about Danny?”

She knows his answer even before his mouth draws up in a cold smile. “Danny boy is coming with me, of course. But I’ll give you a choice: stay here with little James - excuse me, I mean Robbie - and Sherlock, or come with me and Danny. Keep me from getting bored and dropping him into the Thames one day.”

Molly has been terrorized and abused by this man before, but the fear she felt for her own safety was nothing compared the ice that floods her veins at his words. A faint buzzing fills her ears and her vision starts to sparkle and blacken, but she holds onto consciousness with grim resolve. This man has just threatened to take one of her children from her, and that she will never allow.

She feels herself settling into a calm, an almost Zen-like state of hyperawareness and mental clarity that must be what Sherlock feels when he’s working on a problem. In this case, the problem is two-fold; Moriarty with his threats to her children, and Thing 2 with his immediate threat to her life.

She knows what she needs to do and does it without thinking, without any hesitation at all. Her shoulders slump, her body trembles, and she sinks to her knees with her face in her hands, sobbing and begging Moriarty not to do this, not to make her choose between her sons. He crouches down in front of her; from between her fingers she can see the placid smile on his lips. “Ah, Molly, afraid I can’t do that. See, if I take you, or just kill you, then Sherlock has the kiddies to console him. And if I take the three of you, then he’s entirely focused on hunting me down, so predictable, so boring. But if I leave some and take some, why then his attention is split.”

He leans closer, so that his face is next to her shaking hands. “And it’s an interesting social experiment, don’t you think? Sherlock being left with my son to raise - will he do it? Especially if you’re not here to keep an eye on him? Or will he neglect the poor little thing? Either way, you’ll never know.”

The doorbell rings, and Moriarty frowns, glancing up at Thing 2. “Get rid of them, whoever it is.”

As soon as the bodyguard’s heavy tread is heard on the stairs, Molly acts. She doesn’t telegraph her move, just launches herself upwards from her kneeling position, using the entire weight of her body to add force as she slams her the top of her head against Moriarty’s nose.

He topples backwards with a howl of pain and a spurt of blood while Molly races to Sherlock’s desk at the opposite end of the room. Her instincts are screaming at her to turn and grab her boys, but she can’t save them by hugging them to her breast, not this time. This time - and, she prays rapidly, God please let it be the _last_ time - she will have to resort to something other than motherly love and her own two hands.

The gun is where Sherlock put it after her return, in the top right drawer of his desk. She knows it’s still loaded because he hasn’t touched it since he placed it there, depending on John’s service revolver whenever the two of them have been away from the flat. He’s left it there for her protection and even though she’s never fired a weapon in her life, it’s been a bit of a comfort, knowing it’s there.

It’s even more of a comfort now, when she feels the solid weight of it in her hands. She turns and undoes the safety, aiming it squarely at Moriarty as he struggles to his feet, his face a mask of rage and nose undeniably broken. Blood continues to trickle from it as he glares murderously at her. “You fucking bitch,” he says in a low, dangerous voice, hands twitching by his sides. But he makes no other moves, gives Molly no excuse to cut him down like the rabid dog he is.

She knows he’s just waiting for Thing 2 to come back upstairs, having chased away whoever was at the door, evening the odds. She has no doubt that the other man heard Moriarty’s howl of pain and will be ready for trouble, and if he shoots her then her boys will have no one to keep them safe from Moriarty’s predations. Her clarity of purpose wavers a bit as she considers the problem of what to do next.

Moriarty of course reads her indecisiveness and smirks at her. “What to do?” he taunts her. “Threaten me or threaten Davis? If he sees you aiming a weapon at me, well, he’s been trained to shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Maybe I’ll just shoot you now and get it over with,” Molly says, trying to hide her uncertainty beneath a veneer of bravado.

Moriarty grins unpleasantly at her, all teeth and cocky self-confidence no amount of blood can dim. “Oh, Molly, we both know you’re no murderer,” he says softly. “If I did something stupid like try to rush you, or make a break for the bedroom to try and grab one of your brats to use as a hostage, you’d shoot me in a heartbeat and never feel more than a moment’s regret. But cold-blooded murder? Against an unarmed opponent?” He shakes his head, still grinning through the blood still trickling over his lips. “Sorry, it’s just not you, love.”

A feeling of despair washes over her; he’s right and she knows it. The only way she can regain the upper hand is if she’s too close to Moriarty for Thing 2 - Davis - to get a clean shot. But the second she’s within arm’s reach, she knows Moriarty will take her down. It’s only been a month since she gave birth, no time to start any sort of self-defense training beyond the basics. Child’s play, she thinks with rising hysteria, for Moriarty to anticipate any moves she might make.

The sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs catches her attention; she takes her eyes off Moriarty for only a second and when she snaps them back he’s moved forward a single step. “Time’s up, Miss Molly.” He holds out one hand, clearly expecting her to surrender the weapon.

Never. Even if Davis guns her down, she’ll die happy knowing she’s taking Moriarty with her. It’s a gamble; if Davis is more than just a hired hand, then her boys are still in jeopardy. But they’re in jeopardy anyway, and it’s a chance she’ll just have to take. “Go to hell,” Molly says coldly, and tightens her finger on the trigger.

**oOo**

“Molly, don’t!” Sherlock shouts from the doorway. His words cause her to jerk back in surprise, and the gun fires but misses its target by a good foot, possibly two. He’ll have to dig out the bullet later and see.

Molly is still staring at Moriarty, eyes a bit wild, and it’s clear as daylight that she’s going to try and shoot him again. Recognizing that, Sherlock barrels into her, knocking her arm upwards and away from her intended target.

She’s screaming, fighting him, clearly not recognizing him, and as if in sympathy he hears Danny and Robbie howling from the bedroom. He manages to get the gun away from her, ruthlessly shoving her to the floor with one hand as he rises to his knees, training the weapon on Moriarty, who looks extremely displeased to see him. The blood on the other man’s face gives him a gargoylish appearance, and Sherlock takes a split second to appreciate Molly’s work.

She’s rolled over to a sitting position, hair hanging wildly around her face and shoulders, and is staring at him in disbelief. “Sherlock, what, how…”

“Moran,” he responds, never taking his eyes - or gun - away from Moriarty. “It was obvious thirty seconds into the interview that he wasn’t running scared. Next time,” he adds, addressing Moriarty, “you might want to invest in a lackey with better acting skills.”

Moriarty shrugs. “What can I say, good help is hard to find these days.”

“Oh, is that why you took such a _personal interest_ in Molly, then? Lack of someone good enough to do the job for you?”

Sherlock’s voice is deliberately provocative, a contemptuous sneer twisting his lips as he stares at his opponent. Thinking about what the bastard did to Molly almost makes him wish he’d let her shoot him. Almost. Moriarty certainly deserve to die, but not in a way that Molly would regret for the rest of her life.

No, best to save the vengeful murdering for himself; he’s already done it once, what’s another death on his record? A little more red ink in his ledger - especially this particular red ink - surely won’t matter. He rises to his feet, his only (fleeting) regret that he can’t make the man suffer as he deserves to. With a cold smile he raises the gun and points it directly at Moriarty’s head.

Two things stop him from pulling the trigger and putting an end to the other man. The first is the sound of Danny and Rob’s cries, increasing in volume and distress from the bedroom. The second is Molly’s hand on his arm. “Don’t,” she says quietly. A single word, all the more powerful since he knows she was ready to do exactly as he intends. Ready to kill without remorse, to keep Moriarty from ever threatening them again.

He moves only his eyes as he looks at her, and reads her motivations as clearly as if she’d spoken the words. _Don’t. Don’t put our future in jeopardy. Don’t leave me and the boys alone. Don’t risk the possibility of prison or exile or worse again._

He lowers the gun. Although he would unhesitatingly kill or die for her and their sons, he understands and honors her unspoken wish for him to do neither of those things, not this time.

Moriarty laughs. “Oh, my darling Sherlock, you are completely _whipped_! Never thought I’d see the day. She’ll have you watching Glee with her next.”

“It’ll be better company than she had the last time,” Sherlock retorts, still looking at Molly. “Go see to the boys,” he says softly. “Lestrade and the others have probably figured out where I am by now. I, erm, may have neglected to tell them where I was going when I left.” He manages a sheepish look. She smiles and shakes her head, then starts for the bedroom.

“Sorry, Sherly, but you don’t get to live happily ever after.” Moriarty’s words are all the warning they receive, and Sherlock silently curses himself for letting his guard down even for a moment. Too late he raises his gun; a loud bang fills his ears, the smell of gunpowder assaults his nose, and he sees Molly sink to the floor, her face a mask of pain and horror.

Moriarty is dead seconds later. Sherlock empties the magazine into his body anyway. Just to be sure. As if watching his actions from a distance, he sees his hand dip into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and dialing 999. After calmly (coldly) giving his address and the nature of the emergency as requested, he drops the phone to the floor and falls to his knees. There is a spreading pool of blood from Molly’s abdomen and the sound of feet pounding up the stairs. He ignores everything except Molly, lying so pale and small on the sitting room floor. He’s taken off his jacket without realizing it, wadding it up and pressing it against the bleeding wound.

He barely moves even when John shoves him away to examine Molly. He’s saying something, but Sherlock can’t understand him. A sharp slap to the cheek brings him out of his fog, and he sees John glaring at him. “Did you call 999?” He nods dumbly, starts to look down at Molly only to be stopped by John’s voice. “Sherlock. I’ve got her. The boys are crying. Go take care of them and let me take care of her.”

He nods again, starts to rise as Lestrade and a confusing crowd of others rush into the flat. Ignoring them completely, he looks back at John. “Save her,” he says. Pleads. Begs. “Please.” His voice cracks a bit on the last word, and John gives him a sharp nod.

He manages to rise to his feet then, moving blindly toward the bedroom. Molly needs him, but she needs John - the man who will save your life, as he once put it - more. He steps heedlessly and uncaringly over Moriarty’s corpse, increasing his speed until he’s running the short distance down the hall and into the bedroom. He scoops first Rob and then Danny into his arms, holding them awkwardly, gazing numbly at their red, screaming faces, wondering what kind of a father he’ll be if there’s no Molly in his life to help guide him.

“Oh, the poor sweet dears, here, Sherlock, let me take one.” Mrs. Hudson appears as if by magic, taking one of the babies - Rob - he notes automatically - and holding him to her shoulder with soft murmurs as she cuddles him close. Sherlock mimics her actions with Danny, and as soon as he cradles his son to his shoulder he feels some of the ice start to melt. He knows how to soothe him, rocking his body and murmuring soft nonsense words, just as Mrs. Hudson is doing with Rob. Both boys start to calm immediately until their screams have becomes whimpers and snuffles.

_I will solve your murder. But it takes John Watson to save your life._

John has never let him down. He won’t do it now. Sherlock kisses Danny’s head, then Rob’s when Mrs. Hudson moves close enough for him to do so.

The boys will _not_ grow up without their mother.

John will save her.

Any other outcome is unacceptable.


	11. The Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, folks, the end of the story. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.

He takes them to the grave when they’re five.

Molly thinks it’s too soon, but the boys are both precocious geniuses-in-the-making and already know that they have different fathers. A combination of eavesdropping (instigated by Danny) and opportunistic reading (they already read at a fifth-grade level) after Robbie ‘borrows’ Molly’s laptop have given them enough clues to piece together the mystery. They’re both equally unashamed if not outright proud of the fact that they were able to out-maneuver their parents; apparently ferreting out secrets is just in their blood, Molly ruefully tells Mary Watson when she comes to keep her company while Sherlock and the boys are at the gravesite.

“He was a bad man,” Robbie proclaims as he stares at the nondescript grey headstone.

“But you’re not gonna be a bad man when you grow up,” Danny says confidently. Sherlock waits to see how the boys will process all this, allowing them to work things out between them as they always seem to do.

“What if I can’t help it? What if it’s bad genes or stuff?”

“Daddy and Mum won’t let it happen.” Danny is still entirely confident and beams up at his father. “Right, Daddy?"

“Right,” Sherlock agrees, kneeling down between his two sons and placing a hand apiece on their small shoulders. “More importantly, _Robbie_ won’t let it happen, because he knows he’s loved. You both are. Very much.”

Robbie slants him a look full of mischief, and Sherlock is relieved that the melancholy he’s been exhibiting recently has finally receded. “Even by Uncle Mycroft?”

Sherlock laughs. “Yes, even by Uncle Mycroft. But don’t let him know I told you so; he likes to think he’s aloof and mysterious and we wouldn’t want to burst his bubble.”

They go for ice cream after that, then ride the Tube back to Baker Street. Both boys are chattering away about their various projects, both musical and scientific; about what they want for their upcoming birthday (Sherlock nixes the idea of a pony, just as he nixed the same request by Alice Watson the year before); about the new baby coming…

“Wait, what?” Sherlock demands, piercing them both with a hard stare.

They exchange guilty looks, then give him identical shrugs. “Mum’s been sick a lot,” Danny says.

“And she can’t stand the smell of a bacon fry up even in the afternoon,” Robbie says. “Plus she threw the box away in the bin in the loo instead of outside. So do you want a sister for us or a brother? I vote for sister,” he adds eagerly. “Then we won’t have to share a room, right?”

Sherlock laughs and gathers them close, a rush of affection filling his heart. Their family might be an odd one by society’s standards, but he couldn’t have asked for a better one had he made out a list and personally handed it to whatever mythical force might be in charge of arranging such things.

**oOo**

He shares the story with Molly and Mary when he gets home, and again with John when he arrives a half-hour later from his shift at the clinic. They share a glass of wine apiece - except for Molly, who shyly explains why and is soundly congratulated - before John and Mary head back home, collecting Alice and kissing the boys good-bye.

“I suppose it’s just as well the boys let the cat out of the bag,” she sighs as she leans against Sherlock. He wraps his arms around her waist and drops a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m only about six weeks along, but with this many detectives in one house, I’m lucky I was able to keep it a secret this long!”

“Mm, it can be a bit much, can’t it,” he agrees, leading her not to the sofa, but to their bedroom. She protests - the empty bottle and glasses are still sitting on the coffee table, and she hates leaving a mess overnight - but he simply grins and pulls her close for a lingering kiss. “I think we have a lot to celebrate, Molly, don’t you?”

What can she do but agree?

They’ve only been married a year, but to Sherlock it’s as if they’ve always been married, and he knows with quiet confidence that they always will be.

Once you’ve gone through hell with someone and come out safely on the other side, as he and Molly have, that’s a bond impossible to break.

He kisses her, and closes the bedroom door.

They do, indeed, have a lot to celebrate.


End file.
